


The Least of These

by Im_The_Doctor (Bofur1)



Series: The Pacemakers [6]
Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Accidental Acquisition, Alien Culture, Bittersweet, Celebrations, Ceremonies, Consequences, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Family Bonding, Family Dynamics, Fights, Getting to Know Each Other, Hospitalization, Longing, Major Character Injury, Marriage, Medical Procedures, Multi, Pack Dynamics, Pre-Earth Transformers, Psychological Drama, Stress, Surprise Ending, Wedding Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-07-28 18:46:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 61,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7652641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bofur1/pseuds/Im_The_Doctor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Among Minibots, it's traditional that a group of five or six will form a "pace", adopting each other as kin and swearing an oath to remain that way as long as they're functioning.</p><p>Brawn and his household have finally settled into a kinder life. It seems they've escaped the pains of their past, but something small is kindling, something that could prove they haven't quite managed to put the past where it belongs...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place twenty-six years after [Born For Adversity](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6463594/chapters/14793976), so I suggest reading that first if you get confused. :)
> 
> Pace - A company or herd of mules; in my headcanon, a family of Minibots; also a traditional expectation and an honor among Minibots who form one.
> 
> One/Unuceim - the first Minibot to agree to join the proposer's pace; Sequein - the second to agree to join; Trilitare - the third to agree to join; Quanidre - the fourth to agree to join; Quiendus - the fifth to agree to join.
> 
> Culumexian - the form of Cybertronian spoken by residents of Culumex, the Minibot city on Cybertron, or the residents themselves.

It was their thirty-vorn **fratersarien** , the anniversary of their pace, and they were at it again. Huffer didn’t bother to resist releasing a sigh, letting his optics sweep toward the kitchen where their **trilitare** and **quanidre** were having it out. Windcharger was clenching and unclenching his hands testily at his sides, while Cliffjumper stalked back and forth, throwing his arms wildly about and hollering.

It was a familiar scene, so Huffer wouldn’t bother trying to get involved until one of the combatants hit a peak. For now he was more inclined to sit comfortably in the lounge and block out the sounds of the argument entirely.

While it had been twenty-six vorns since they had moved into the Epistemus sector, the vastness of their home could still surprise, even unnerve Huffer sometimes. He had never been a wealthy mech and technically he still wasn’t. The home was something for the pace to share, but it was explicitly _owned_ by Cliffjumper, who had bought it from his creators when they moved into the Solus sector.

His offer that the pace move in with him instead of vice-versa had been quite a shock to them, Huffer recalled, but no more shocking than the fact that Cliffjumper had accepted their proposal to become his pace-mates in the first place. Windcharger had grown up in the prosperity of Solus and Gears in Alchemist, where all of their needs had been tended to, so this was a nice change. It was also an undeniably hard one, particularly for Brawn and Huffer.

After the Unraveling of his first pace, Brawn had moved from his home sector of Onyx to the opposite side of Culumex, Nexus. It had been a home to him for vorns before his second pace began forming. He had found Huffer in the adjacent sector, Maximus, and at that point Nexus had been nothing short of a haven for the overburdened engineer. That was where they had begun their new life and to leave behind what they knew to live in such a grand place had been rather overwhelming. Even so, the change had proven to be worth it; it benefitted their pace-mates.

Though Gears remained ill-tempered and health-obsessed, he was clearly much more comfortable in this new setting. He had told them that himself. “The one thing I missed about Alchemist was a decent home,” he declared, propping his feet on their dining room table. “Now I don’t have to miss it; I can hate Alchemist for what it is!” It was at that point that Cliffjumper had pulled the chair out from under him, claiming it was _his_ undisputed seat, and Huffer had realized the addition of their **quanidre** would definitely keep them busy.

Cliffjumper had been slow to be a gracious host, but the very idea that a pace would entirely change their lives to include him had definitely helped with that. Their agreement to his offer had startled him just as much as his agreement to theirs had, Huffer noted. He had expected them to go back on their word and sometimes he still did, but it wasn’t going to happen. They continued to prove time and time again that they wouldn’t give up on him, no matter how many times he disrupted a meal or took a swing. He was temperamental, but they each had ways of dealing with that when the others couldn’t and he’d eventually softened— _ever_ so slightly.

Windcharger had undoubtedly benefitted the most from the move; in this sector, he was unknown. His past affiliations and crimes weren’t glaring him in the face as they did in Nexus and he was free to move about in the light, unrecognized by the populace. All of the sectors knew about the Archive falling, but here that incident wasn’t as significant; Epistemus minded its own business and didn’t bother with Nexus’. All the Epistemus mechs knew was that this new street performer made their sparklings laugh and for that he was paid well. His twenty vorns of giving credits to the bereaved had passed and Windcharger’s relief was evident.

The only changes Huffer would make were minor ones. He wished their commute to work in Nexus wasn’t so far, but the company he kept on the way was good. He wished Windcharger’s remaining vorns of community service would pass quickly, but there wasn’t anything he could do to pressure time. Most prominently, he wished Cliffjumper would stop instigating fights about things that were insignificant.

“Are you even paying attention?” Cliff was demanding now. “You left the wash-racks dripping oil again! That’s the third time this quintun!”

“I didn’t take you for the type to nag,” Windcharger shot back.

“I’m not nagging, okay? I’m tellin’ you to fraggin’ turn the oil off when you get out of the wash-racks! I’m not going to have a cold wash just cos you’re a higher title than me in the pace and you go first!”

“And did you ever consider that I left it on because you’re always in such a _hurry_ to wash? I’m doing you a favor and maybe if you didn’t take so long in there, it wouldn’t be cold by the time you got out!”

Groaning as it went round and round, Huffer slid low on the furniture. It wasn’t uncommon for Cliff and Charger to forget the date, but he had hoped they would remember and start behaving a bit sooner than they had last vorn.

“At least they haven’t thrown a punch yet, eh?” Brawn made his presence known, sitting to his left and slinging an arm around Huffer’s shoulders. “They’ve been doing well this diun. I think when Cliff cracked Charger’s optic last time, it spooked them.”

“They’ll slip again,” Huffer assured him, shaking his helm and elbowing his friend lightly in hopes that the heavy arm would drop, but Brawn was barely moved by the blow, so he did it again with the same lack of results.

“Sure, I know they will, and that’s where it gets fun. I get to decide who has the honor of breaking ’em up!” Brawn pointed out, plating flaring self-assuredly. “That’s what I call in-house entertainment.”

“Can’t you break them up _now?_ ” Huffer complained, elbowing him a third time. “They shouldn’t be arguing on an orn like this one.”

“I want them to remember that on their own. Speaking of an orn like this one…” The arm squeezing his shoulders tightened further as his leader knocked the sides of their helms together affectionately. “Happy **fratersarien** , little One.”

 **::Primonor con geuer flamerc,::** Huffer replied automatically, sensing the pride through Brawn’s EM field where he touched him. “And tell me, Brawn, just how many anniversaries do I have to endure with you calling me that? Our pace—” He paused, optics widening slightly. “Our pace is…”

“Our pace is up-and-coming,” Brawn finished for him with a broad grin. “As of this vorn, we’re not novice mates anymore.”

“We’re in our _prime!_ ” Huffer realized, something keen, both excited and bittersweet, stirring in his spark as he lifted a hand to the one that hung over his shoulder, weaving their fingers in an approximation of their old oath. **::Cyig’kote…::**

 **::Unuceim,::** Brawn returned quietly. In Huffer’s peripheral vision, he could see his friend glance toward the kitchen. “Uh-oh.”

At that, Huffer followed his gaze to see Gears striding down the long hallway toward the kitchen. Shrugging off Brawn’s arm, Huffer started across the lounge. If what was about to happen was allowed, the **fratersarien** wouldn’t be very happy for long.

Somewhere along the line, Windcharger and Cliffjumper’s squabble had turned from wasting oil in the wash-racks to doing unnecessary favors. “It’s as though you don’t expect me to do my part!” Cliffjumper exclaimed. “Ohh, _that’s_ what you’re doing! You’re doing favors for me so you can take credit for doing more than your share around here!”

“I _don’t have_ a double-motive!” Windcharger stressed, throwing up his hands.

Gears had slowed to a stop in the doorway to the kitchen, watching the argument take place. Even though he didn’t say a word, Huffer had come to recognize the warning signs—the impatient shift of his weight, a slight rolling of the shoulders, a lifting of the hands for a solid wallop, and Huffer knew the critical nanoklik had come.

“Shut up, all of you!” he hollered, startling the bickerers into silence. “ _All_ of you,” he repeated firmly as Gears turned with his mouth open to protest. “I’m handling it.” Pushing past the now-fuming **sequein** , Huffer stood between him and his targets, glaring at the latter. “You’ve ruined the start of our morning—our _anniversary_ morning!”

At those words, Windcharger took a step back and Cliffjumper let his optics close in a deep grimace. “Oh, didn’t you remember?” Huffer demanded rhetorically. “It’s the orn we began and we were happy, the orn we _celebrated_ , and you’ve ruined the start of it. You forgot all about it just so you could do—whatever this is!”

“ _I_ remembered,” Gears grumbled in a pedal tone. “But _somebody_ stopped me from setting them straight.”

Ignoring him, Huffer slumped against the doorframe, still pinning the guiltily-fidgeting mechs with a glower. “I don’t know if the orn can come back from this,” he prodded further. “This is…this _was_ quite the special anniversary too. After all, we’re prime pace-mates now and—”

“We’re what?!” Windcharger gasped at the same time Cliffjumper whooped, “Prime! We’re prime!” From the way they were now beaming at him, they could almost be entirely different mechs.

 _They’re just like turbopuppies,_ Huffer decided resolutely. _One klik they’re all fangs and bristles at each other and the next—as soon as they see a treat—the rear sensors start wagging and they roll over._ Relenting, he offered a small smile to them both.

“I got rusted chrome-cakes for this morning,” he informed them, “and some high-grade for this evening, so can we get along for the orn—the _whole_ orn?”

“Of course! It’ll be easy,” Windcharger scoffed. “We’re great partners when we want to be—”

“Prove it!” Gears challenged as he cut past. “Partner up and get outta my way! I’ve got Garbage O’s calling for me—”

“No Garbage O’s, Gears!” Huffer scolded, snagging his arm and hauling him back. “Didn’t you hear me? We’re supposed to be having a special breakfast and Garbage O’s are _not_ special!”

“But it _would_ mean more chrome-cakes for us,” Cliffjumper pointed out hungrily.

“And he’s almost reached the little windup figurine they put at the bottom!” Brawn chimed in as he rose to join them. Huffer shot him an exasperated glance and Brawn conceded, holding up his hands placatingly. “Alright, alright, I guess the collection can wait until tomorrow.” He paused, his smile fading into something pensive and intent as he studied them, and Gears started to take a step back.

“Oh, frag, brace yourselves!” he cried just before Brawn lunged, gathering as many of them as he could reach into a death grip hug. Windcharger choked as the air left his vents, Gears squawked and struggled and squirmed, and Huffer went as limp as possible, resigned to his fate. Cliffjumper had dropped to the floor and scooted back to press himself against the kitchen counter, narrowly escaping.

“Happy **fratersarien**!” Brawn proclaimed, releasing them in favor of targeting Cliffjumper, who shrank a bit further as the larger mech loomed, picked him up and crushed him for a solid twenty kliks longer than the others. “It’s better not to resist,” he informed his **quanidre** kindly before setting him down and keeping ahold of Cliff’s shoulders as he stumbled.

“I hope my internals are still _intact_ for the chrome-cake,” the red mech gasped out, earning a hearty slap on the back and sending a glare in return. Huffer, pulling Windcharger and Gears to their feet, could sympathize, but even the new crick in his backstrut wasn’t going to faze him—not yet. They were going to enjoy this orn, no matter the surprises it held.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fratersarien: the anniversary of a pace's beginning  
> Primonor con geuer flamerc: "A Prime honor is with your spark"  
> Cyig'kote: "pace-leader"  
> Unuceim: "One"
> 
> It's taken me a while to reach this point, but I can't tell you how excited I am that it's finally here! Have I ever mentioned how fraggin' _fun_ it is to write Minibot domestics?! XD


	2. Chapter 2

Their journey to Nexus had begun about a joor and a half ago, when they had bid farewell to Windcharger, but on this particular orn, Gears couldn’t be too bothered by the long commute. Despite his unrelenting attempts to make sure his pace-mates weren’t too happy in their orn-to-orn life, he would try to acknowledge this special occasion like a creation orn of sorts, which called him to indulge his mates.

“Alright, I’m off,” Cliffjumper announced, glancing at them meaningfully before taking off at a jog toward the street market in the distance. Unless he was doing overtime, he would often walk them partway to their site and then take a detour to his own work, but they had spent more time than usual at breakfast and he was already late as it was.

Gears wouldn’t have admitted it, but this morning had been the most fun he’d allowed himself in quite a while. Cliffjumper had been animatedly narrating an altercation he’d had with one of his customers last afternoon.

“So I’m ringing up this bit-brain and he seemed kind of impatient, which I deal with all the time, so I ignore him—at least until he’s climbing on the counter to see what his total is. Before I can stop him, he asks me why he’s being charged twenty-nine credits. I tell him that’s not what he’s being charged since that’s the weight and that he needs to get off the counter, but he tells me he wants to see what he’s actually being charged.”

“Don’t tell me you obliged him,” Windcharger groaned.

“Well, yeah, just so he’d get off the counter!” Cliff insisted. “I pointed to the total and he said he still didn’t get why he was being charged twenty-nine credits when his item was only supposed to cost forty-four nano-credits a pound! ‘Twenty-nine is the weight, not the price,’ I said, and then I told him again to get off the fraggin’ counter.”

“But doesn’t it show the calculations on the screen and all that scrap?” Brawn demanded.

“Yeah! So then _he_ walks _me_ through it, pointing to the weight and the price and saying he still doesn’t get why he’s paying twenty-nine credits! Then I see the other bots in line have left, so I punch in his credit stick, hand him his package and _push_ him off the counter. He gets up, looks confused for a klik or two and then leaves. I get through two other customers and start on the third one and then I see this wingnut come running back and he climbs _over_ the counter to tell me he finally understands!”

Before Gears had realized what was happening, he’d laughed aloud and then froze as the other four mechs glanced over. The first time he’d done that after getting his circuit card, Brawn had lapsed into silence for the rest of the evening and Huffer had been so stunned that he’d started crying as soon as he thought Gears was ignoring him.

This time, however, his unintentional act only seemed to make them happier. After that there had been a companionship among all of them that wasn’t always so blatant and he actually hadn’t minded that, but it did give him fuel for thought.

Where would he be, if not for them? Though thirty vorns was a short time, it was a milestone nonetheless. Who could say if he would be alive to see this orn if he hadn’t met them? He would like to think he would have found a way out of NET on his own, that his spark would have fought back regardless of Brawn and Huffer’s absence, but deep down he knew better.

Without them, he would still be everything the normal bots said NET patients were—he still would be an automaton, a _drone_ , and if not that, he would be dead. He was aware of the stasis lock he was subject to after the circuit card; if they hadn’t taken him in and given him energon to bring him back to health, his energy levels would have guttered and he would have gone offline, abandoned, with no chance for a better life.

The idea itself was chilling, which made him all the more grateful for the mechs striding beside him, one of whom had just spoken to him. “What?” he shot back distractedly.

“You alright?” Brawn repeated. “You were quiet.”

“No, I’m not,” Gears informed him immediately. “My lower back and shoulders have cramped up because of that stunt you pulled with the—ahh!” He had hardly finished his sentence before Brawn stopped, grabbed him and twisted him at an angle that cracked several links in his backstrut.

“Okay?” Brawn prompted, not bothering to wait for an answer. “Okay. Let’s get to work!” Gingerly working his shoulders, Gears watched him move up ahead and then trudged after him, muttering choice words for which Huffer gave him a warning look.

To their surprise, Hightop was there to meet them as they arrived at the entrance. “Happy **fratersarien** ,” he said as greeting, inclining his helm to Brawn. **::Primonor con geuer flamerc.::** Would you care for the orn off? You deserve to spend it together.”

Brawn stopped up short, glancing at his pace-mates, who were just as baffled as he was. Even as he shook their manager’s hand in thanks, he answered cautiously, “No, thank you. Even if we did, our pace-mates are already at _their_ work. Uh…how did you know?”

“Polevault, as a matter of fact.”

“Wonderful,” Huffer sighed. “Now _everyone_ knows.”

Sure enough, the trio was treated with the attention of several optics as soon as they came into view. By now they had become accustomed to it on their **fratersarien** , but this time the optics seemed to linger a bit longer than they had last vorn.

“They know we’re prime now,” Gears groused in a pedal tone. “Why did Polevault have to tell ’em?”

After a tense minute, Cloudshift scoffed and rolled his optics, hauling some joists up from the ground and striding off. Though some of the others weren’t as unapologetic about expressing their feelings, they followed his example and returned to their business.

“I’ll need to talk with Polevault,” Gears decided. “She _knows_ what they think of you two!”

“Just be glad they don’t think the same of you, Gears,” Huffer mumbled, tightly pursing his lips as though it could hide his despair.

“D’you really think they’d _show_ a former boss they don’t like him anymore?” Gears retorted, folding his arms skeptically. “Especially one of my former standing?”

“Well, you know what a so-called Unraveler’s ‘standing’ is compared to their caste,” their One insisted. “As far as they care, you’ve been _tainted_.”

“Either way,” Brawn interrupted tersely, “whatever they think shouldn’t matter, not this time. There’s no reason to get your plating in a twist because of them.” Before Gears or Huffer could answer, Blitzglitch cut between them, lightly tapping Brawn’s shoulder.

“Just ignore them,” he suggested shortly, looking him up and down as he passed. “ **Fratersarien** , huh? Good for you.”

“Didn’t you say he was disgusted when you said you’d hire us, Gears?” Huffer asked curiously as their coworker went on his way.

“He _was_ ,” Gears echoed, to which Huffer nodded thoughtfully. Saying nothing more of it, they went their separate ways to their stations.

The rec center they were building was coming along nicely. Since the journey Brawn and Windcharger had taken to Solus, Brawn had been bursting with ideas for Huffer and the other engineers to try, to beat out the one they had seen while they were there.

“They didn’t have very many stories compared to all of the other buildings in Solus—just nine or ten, I think—but it was wide, with holovid paneling—y’know, for advertisements and things like that,” he would describe it, optics keen and bright. “Think you and your engineers and the electricians could manage that?”

“With the team I have, I doubt it,” Huffer would admit. Just as Brawn’s face was falling or he started to scowl, he would tilt his helm and add with a shrug, “So I guess I’ll be forced to do it personally.”

While Huffer was clearly ready and willing to take Brawn up on the unspoken challenge to the high-and-mighty sector, it only served as a greater frustration to Gears, who was constantly finding revised plans and lists with new materials he needed to order and pick up. Before he could gather up the stack of data pads that had amassed for him this time, he found himself grabbed from behind in a hug tight enough to crack his backstrut a bit more.

“What the frag—?” he yelped.

“Oh, sorry, did I startle you?” Polevault questioned sheepishly as she released him. “I was just happy to see you! You’re prime, Gears! How do you feel about that?!”

“ _Wrenched_ ,” Gears announced, frowning at her for another klik or two before softening and answering honestly, “It’s…not a bad feeling.”

“I didn’t think it would be,” Polevault agreed with a smirk before glancing around and lowering her voice. “I must say, though, I was expecting a warmer reception from everyone else…I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

“You were just excited,” Gears brushed it off. “Just be careful you don’t end up incriminating yourself. You do that and next thing we know, it’ll be Rusty and if it’s him, it’ll be _his_ pace.”

Polevault’s smile widened and she hunched her shoulders somewhat shyly. “You mean _our_ pace.”

Gears blinked. “Excuse me?”

“It’s our pace now,” Polevault repeated, beaming, “as of last night.”

“Well, what are you thinking, Polevault, not telling me that right away?!” Gears demanded, clasping her hands. “I’m ha—er, I’m _glad_ for you. What rank?”

“Rank? Oh, no, it isn’t like that,” she told him mysteriously, gesturing Brawn and Huffer over from their stations. “I wanted you three to hear this at once,” she explained excitedly once they were in audial range. “What better time to tell you? Rusty asked me to be in his pace as his Conjunx Endura and I said yes!”

“So soon?!” Huffer gasped as Gears tightened his grip on her hands. She glanced between them, still beaming, unfazed, and Gears searched for something to say.

“Well, if it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be,” Brawn proclaimed with a pointed look at Huffer. “We formed a pace after _one_ conversation, remember? And here we are thirty vorns later, with a pace in its prime. It was meant to be, just like this is.”

Huffer considered for a klik or two. “In that case, Polevault, best wishes to you and your intended!”

Polevault smiled gratefully at him and then focused on Gears. “Did I shock you speechless?” she laughed, leaning down to catch his optics. “That would be a surprise.”

“He’s ready to make that commitment?” he questioned, sounding grimmer than he might have intended. “You’re sure he’s what you want in a sparkmate?”

“It’s Rusty!” Polevault exclaimed. “Of course I’m sure.” When he said nothing in return, she repeated more emphatically, “I’m sure, Gears; I love him. Are you…happy for me?”

“I’m _glad_ for you,” he assured her, optics tracing cracks in the ground before meeting hers. “But I have to make sure you’ll be alright, that I won’t have to give my good friend the usual threats on the off-chance he breaks your spark.” Peering at her closely, he decided, “Catapult would probably approve.”

“He would,” Polevault agreed warmly, hesitating a nanoklik before venturing, “Is it too much to ask for a smile? If it is, I completely understand.”

Gears’ spark pulse rose and he could sense Brawn and Huffer’s discomfort for him at the request, but he finally shook his helm. “If it had to be on any orn, I guess this one’s fitting,” he admitted, making sure the smile he put on his face, a smile of _gladness_ , was genuine.


	3. Chapter 3

Had Windcharger been told thirty vorns ago that he would eventually be an ex-convict entertaining sparklings on Epistemus streets with a pace waiting for him at the end of the orn, he would have likely scoffed. It would have been a stretch of the imagination, one he didn’t have the time or care enough to make. He wouldn’t have been able to fathom how he could go from being in a carnival troupe to being a one-mech show.

 _And now look at me,_ he mused as he set up his small area near the sidewalk, _using everything I learned from them. Whoever thought I’d be mimicking Incinerator’s cues, running a performance at the same time I’m_ being _the performance?_

Returning to this function wouldn’t have been his first choice, but it was all he knew. He wasn’t a construction worker and he had a feeling he would terminally glitch if he were forced to work in the market alongside Cliffjumper, so he had to settle for what he had already practiced. There was a downside: it stirred his old restlessness, making his struts itch for the road again.

He had spent many vorns rumbling around in the old airway pod, spending his time thinking or reading until the next stop would bring the new senses. There were times he could get a little nostalgic. Fortunately the thought of his old traveling companions and their fate halted those thoughts without fail. His life was with his pace; he didn’t need an open road if it meant he was going to be alone!

Sometimes Windcharger would tell his pace-mates about the other sectors he’d visited in the past, the different sights and smells, and sometimes it would yield information about them in return. “Onyx,” he’d huffed on one such occasion. “Its technology was cruder than anything I’d seen before, even compared to our traveling pods, and the smell of oil and welding-work was everywhere! It stayed with us for a _diun_ after we left!”

“Watch it,” Brawn had rebuked half-mindedly from where he’d been sitting, optics still fixed on his data pad. “That’s my old home sector you’re talking about. Don’t suppose you’d want us complaining about the credit-sucking sector of Solus while you’re in the room?”

Taken aback, Windcharger had lifted a hand in his direction. “Sorry,” he managed awkwardly, shuffling this new information into a subfolder. “I was just going to add that I liked the bots there. They were built to be big but…gentle, even warm. They were a really hospitable, welcoming group.”

“You’re trying a little too hard, buddy,” Brawn informed him with a lopsided smile. “Move on to a different sector now, alright?”

Thoroughly embarrassed, Windcharger peeked over at the others, who were fighting a battle against their various degrees of amusement. Cliffjumper didn’t fight very hard, outright grinning at seeing him chastised. For that, Windcharger snatched away the box of Garbage O’s that Gears was enjoying and hurled it at him.

From there it had gone into a downward spiral, starting with Gears shouting and ending with Brawn shouting, but afterward they had finally dissolved into laughter—minus Gears, who was still sputtering curses and trying to salvage the Garbage O’s that had scattered across the floor, which only made it funnier.

 _No,_ Windcharger decided again, _I couldn’t trade them for anything on the road._

As he took his vlin out of its case, Windcharger looked the instrument up and down carefully for any scratches or nicks. Any small imperfection might put one of his tunes off-key and that was something he wouldn’t be able to bear. He took great pride in being an attuned mech and he wasn’t about to lose that reputation.

“Winder?”

The performer looked up and then down to the little one who had spoken, a regular named Genre who was rather shy and tended to forget Windcharger’s full name. Genre had been the first mechling to really watch him play and had been thoughtful enough to give him seventy nano-credits afterward. It had been the first seventy nano-credits he’d earned which he wouldn’t need to turn around and give away, so Windcharger had become rather fond of the generous little fellow.

“Hey, Genre,” he greeted warmly, setting aside his vlin and crouching. “How are you?”

Genre wavered, optics not quite meeting his, and leaned forward a little to rest his chamfron against Windcharger’s shoulder. Surprised, Windcharger gingerly patted his back.

“Are you…okay?” he asked, puzzled. A quick, violent shake of the helm was his answer and he pulled back slightly, surprised by the two little hands that pawed at him.

“Some big mechs were saying you were going to die,” Genre burst out miserably. Before Windcharger could even open his mouth, he continued, “They—they said you burn up your energon when you’re playing for us and sometime you’re gonna use it all up and go into stasis, whatever that is, and—and you’ll have to be taken away by the rescue bots so you can _die!_ Then I’ll never see you again and I won’t have anyone to show me how to play a vlin and—”

“No, no, you don’t have to worry,” Windcharger interrupted, a bit panicked by how quickly Genre’s optics were welling. “You’re getting worked up over nothing! It’s _energy_ I burn up, little buddy, not my energon. You misheard; they were just discussing how my magnetism makes me tired sometimes. It never lasts for long. Here, let me show you something.” From his subspace he withdrew an energon cube, presenting it for Genre’s inspection. “I always drink this after I perform. You know how energon works, right, to charge us all?”

“But what if you run out?!” Genre insisted, rubbing at his optics dejectedly.

“I won’t. One of my pace-mates works at a market,” Windcharger consoled, patting his back again. “It’s where we get all of our energon and there’s always a lot there. Cliffjumper double-checks and so does our leader. Besides, our **sequein** Gears is…experienced…with medical topics. They take good care of me, I promise.”

Genre pushed the energon cube back at him, pulling one out of his own subspace with a bit of a struggle, since he wasn’t practiced in using it yet. “I brought another one for you,” he stated solemnly, heaving it at him. “You have to drink it.”

“Alright, alright. You can watch and make sure I do,” Windcharger assured him. Thus he obediently downed the energon and Genre leaned in, peering at him closely until the cube was empty. “There. Will you stop worrying?” Windcharger questioned. Upon receiving a sheepish nod, he added a stern note to his vocals, one Brawn often used for Gears when he was acting like a mech of Genre’s age. “Now you can tell me where you got this particular cube. What I just drank is high-grade, which is definitely _not_ for sparklings.”

“My sire’s stock,” the sparkling mumbled.

“And you gave it to _me?_ ” Windcharger retorted incredulously, shaking his helm in wonder. “Why? You could get in a lot of trouble for that.” Right now it was the thought that counted, but later? He wasn’t about to tell Genre that high-grade could very well cost him his orn’s pay if his sire cared to be reimbursed.

“Cos…well, by the end of your songs, you always look hungry! And you’re always sitting here on the street, so…”

“The only reason I’m on the street is so I can get to know whoever’s passing by,” Windcharger assured him. “You’re very sweet.” Sinking into a more comfortable position as Genre scrambled to a safe viewing distance, he took up his vlin and stretched his fingers. Oftentimes he would make up a traveling song or a song that held a lesson of the orn for the sparklings. For now, while it was just him and Genre, he began a song about helping others and, immediately afterward, another about being honest with one’s creators.

The rest of his orn followed smoothly. Genre seemed reassured by the end of the afternoon when Windcharger winked at him and the other mechlings and femmelings had remained oblivious to any kind of trouble.

Genre’s sire was surprisingly gracious when his creation, prompted by Windcharger, admitted what he had done, waving it off as a one-time thing that they would be talking about, and Windcharger was grateful. The last thing he needed was to forge the habits of a thief in someone so young! It had been sweet of him though. Shaking his helm, he sipped at the cube he had brought, finding that he wasn’t in as much need for it as he usually was, so he finished half of it and put it back in subspace, picking up the empty high-grade cube to throw in the nearest disposal chute.

He had forty-four vorns of community service left to serve in any sector, even if the Epistemus residents didn’t know it; they would think it was simply a street performer taking an odd job for the credits, but it would only be a matter of time before he had to clean _this_ chute, Windcharger reminded himself with distaste, getting as close as he dared to the pile of waste that hadn’t quite made it down the hatch and tossing the cube at the opening, cursing softly when it glanced off the edge and rolled down the heap, dislodging several cans which rolled at his feet. Before he could kick them back, however, some more debris shifted from another corner with a warble.

“Scrap.” Reluctantly he picked the slimy rubbish up to toss it back where it belonged, only to see a flicker of misty whitish-blue. He paused with a frown, squinting at the tangled glass, coils, and gears, and vented sharply as the light winked on and off again.

Was it a machine someone had assumed was broken? He hadn't yet thought up an answer before the mysterious light appeared a third time; this time it stayed burning and Windcharger cautiously stepped closer, using his magnetism to brush aside some more of the debris. Whatever was underneath chirruped again, the garbage stirred, and Windcharger was sure his spark stopped.

“Sweet Solus Prime—” he gasped, plunging his hands into the trash to reveal hazy optics in an oil-streaked face. Peeling the last bits of wrapping away, Windcharger vented sharply, slipping tentative hands around the quivering frame. “Primus Almighty…” he whispered as a tiny hand riddled with cybre-glass fragments grasped at the plating on his forearm.

The sparkling blinked again as though in a daze as Windcharger picked him up, wiping at the stains marring his frame to find golden plating underneath. **::Cestcius, Primine!::** the older mech uttered hoarsely, fumbling for the energon cube he hadn’t finished and coaxing the small face toward it. “Sweet little one…”

He looked only a few vorns old, little more than a newspark, Windcharger noted as he poured the energon down the delicate throat. “How on Cybertron did you get left alone?” he whispered, aghast. The little frame tensed, shuddered a little more and hiccoughed, causing Windcharger to rise to his feet.

“Shh, shh,” he crooned, glancing around wildly and finding no one, no sign of a creator. “Oh, frag. Oh, frag…mechling, where did you even _come_ from?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ::Cestcius, Primine!:: - "Mercies, Primus!"
> 
> So it begins...


	4. Chapter 4

“How’s your orn been?” Cliffjumper asked as he clocked out of his system at the market, hopping the counter to join Brawn, Huffer, and Gears, who had come to pick him up.

“Let me just say I’ll be glad to have some high-grade when we get home,” Huffer replied with a rueful smile, which Cliffjumper returned.

It must have been Primus’ mercies that he’d only had to deal with a few ornery customers and not the usual number this time; it had given Cliffjumper time to think back and laugh at how he had come into the pace, agreeing without knowing what he was getting into, swearing by the Primes that he wouldn’t recant on the vow he’d made completely by accident.

 _Nice accident though,_ he mused. When he was on his mid-orn fuel break, he had been treated to a comm. call from his creators, congratulating him on this milestone. Cliffjumper had appreciated Skydive and Overbright’s thoughtfulness; it only served to lighten his spirits even more, which came in handy and allowed him to be unfazed by the customers who were unaware of his special anniversary.

“Have any fun we should hear about?” Brawn prompted, reading his mind.

“You bet I did!” Cliff agreed, nodding vigorously. “There was this one idiot who got some lilleth eggs and a couple of oil drums, right, and as I’m packaging them up, he tells me I’m not packing them right! ‘Clearly you don’t know how to package things,’ he says. ‘How long have you been working here?’ So I tell him it’s been over thirty vorns and he blinks for a klik or two. Then he says he feels bad for all the other customers who bought from me, then, cos the lilleth eggs obviously need to go on the bottom since the _oil drums_ are fragile!”

“Don’t tell me you actually did it!” Gears exclaimed as they walked.

“Oh, Pits, yes!” Cliff assured them smugly. “So he tells me to get some proper training and walks off with ’em. About five minutes later I see him running back and he rips open the package he made, dumps lilleth glass on the counter and tells me that _I_ broke it! I just laughed at him, honestly. Not only that, the glass punctured one of the oil drums, so it was leakin’ all over him; best sight I had all afternoon!”

The walk home seemed shorter than usual because they were swapping stories, excited to tell Windcharger the news about Rusty and Polevault. He had never been close to them and neither had Cliff, both having met them later, but an impending bond was an important matter regardless of how long they had known the participants.

As soon as the door opened, however, the first thing they heard was oil trickling and Cliffjumper scowled, hollering to the entire house, “Windcharger, do you even _remember_ this morning?! You left the fraggin’ oil on again!” When he received no answer, he strode toward the washroom, letting the door slide open.

“Charger?” Gears asked sharply, nudging Cliffjumper so he could see. Windcharger was sitting on the edge of the drain, cradling two thermal tarps and tensely humming some old song. He looked up then, optics wide, and threw himself to his feet.

“Ah! Gears, Gears, you have to help me!” With that, Windcharger was flying at the **sequein** , who backpedaled furiously toward the startled Brawn and Huffer as Windcharger rattled desperately, “I’ve done everything I can for him: I’ve recalibrated his optics, gotten all the cybre-glass out of his plating, wrapped his hands, given him an oil bath and a buffing, I’ve given him energon, used anything from your stash, Gears, anything that’ll help, but he’s—he’s not venting right! Something’s wrong with him! You know medical things, Gears, you _have_ to help him!”

“Are you glitched?!” Gears hollered back in alarm, ducking behind the safety that was Brawn. “I don’t know who you mean!”

“Please!” Windcharger implored as one of the thermal tarps unwound, slid to the floor and nearly tripped him. Cliffjumper, hovering at their hysterical **trilitare’s** elbow, let out an incoherent sound that was supposed to be a demand, lifting a finger at what the slip had revealed as it opened its mouth and let out a yowl, batting at the pointed finger.

“Windcharger!” Brawn sputtered where Cliffjumper could find no words. “Wh-What is _that?!_ ”

“ _Who_ is that?!” Huffer screeched, clamping his hands over his audials as the little thing wailed again, easily matching his vocal pitch.

“Gears,” Windcharger pleaded, ignoring them. “Gears, something’s wrong with him!” The wail cut off into a sputtering cough and Windcharger’s vents followed suit as he whimpered and patted the sparkling’s chest, trying to soothe it.

“Out of the way, then, let me see—whoever he is!” Gears snapped, shoving through them and gingerly maneuvering his arms under the little frame, pulling him out of the tarp and lifting him for inspection. “Slag,” he cursed, all anger vanishing from his tone in favor of shock. “He’s so… _small!_ ” Pressing an audial against the shuddering chest, he burst out, “How the frag—? His filters are so clogged, I can barely hear his vents; we need to get him to a medic!”

“No, we can’t!” Cliffjumper disagreed, unsure of when he had even formed the words that brought them reeling around. “We’re not his creators! Who—who is this?!”

“We don’t know about sparkling systems! We need a femme!” Huffer cried.

“No, we need a medic,” Brawn protested.

“We need _both!_ ” Gears railed.

“Oh, Primus,” Cliffjumper swore, snatching Gears’ comm. link from his audial and dialing one of the top contacts. Polevault answered after a few trills and Cliff’s throat seized suddenly, so he shoved the link back at Gears, who tucked it awkwardly against his shoulder.

“Polevault, he’s having trouble venting; we need a medic!” he commanded as Huffer took the tarps from Windcharger and wrapped them around his forearms and thereby the golden mechling. Cliffjumper could see the outline of the helm turning back and forth, whimpering at the sudden darkness.

“What? What’s going on? Who needs a medic?!” Polevault’s alarmed questions could be heard on the other side, but Gears was busy trying to console the poor mechling, who squirmed and sobbed, muffled in the tarps’ depths.

“Just come!” Brawn hollered in the general direction of the comm., which by now had fallen to the floor, as he tore the tarps back off and moved to take the newspark so Gears could have both hands, but as soon as the little mech laid optics on the much, much larger one, he unreservedly _screamed_.

Brawn flinched back, looking as though he’d been struck to the face, and Cliffjumper swooped down in his stead, snatching away the sparkling and a thermal tarp and charging toward the room closest to the washroom, sitting just inside the door and wrapping the tarp snugly around the both of them before propping the little stranger awkwardly against his shoulder. He didn’t want to cooperate, fussing and coughing and pushing at Cliff’s chest, so Cliff lifted his knees instead and planted the sparkling’s back against them.

To his disbelief, the mechling stopped howling, but he still fussed, waving his arms in the air in front of Cliffjumper’s face. The grocer huffed tentatively, offering a finger which was rejected.

“At least you stopped crying,” he muttered, “whoever you are.” The sparkling waved his arms again with a fussy buzz and Cliffjumper carefully took his hands, examining the bandages Windcharger had tied them in before again meeting stark blue optics. They kept staring at each other until there was a brief knock, precipitating Gears entering.

“Polevault and Rusty just got here with a medic,” he stated. “They call him Mesh; he’s one of Rusty’s pace-mates.”

“How many does he _have?_ ” Cliffjumper mumbled, offering Gears the sparkling. The **sequein** accepted him and winced in anticipation for the cries, but aside from another exhausted cough, the little one seemed alright with the change of hands. Ex-venting shakily, Cliff rose and followed as Gears presented the golden mechling to the blue-and-gray medic.

“Oh!” Polevault gasped. “Who is that? Who does he belong to?”

“I found him,” Windcharger piped up wearily, slumped in a chair nearby. “He was a lot worse off when I found him, but I couldn’t do anything about his vents!”

“Well, let me see what _I_ can do,” Mesh requested, searching through the kit he’d brought. Cliffjumper glanced at his pace-mates, who were watching anxiously as their friend’s pace-mate carefully removed some plating and cleared thick gunk from the mechling’s vents with a medical apparatus even Gears didn’t recognize. “There we go,” Mesh soothed the sparkling, whose vents stuttered a fraction more before winding into a natural cycle. The full-grown Culumexians in the room followed suit, venting sighs of relief.

“He’s badly malnourished,” Mesh mentioned, casting a stern glance at Brawn’s pace. “Have you given him any kind of fuel?”

“I did, before they got home from work,” Windcharger admitted, fidgeting worriedly. “Is medium-grade alright for him?”

Mesh nodded and opened his mouth to elaborate, but Rusty put a hand on his arm, stilling him. “Tell them what they need to know, but afterward…we were never here,” he warned.

“What do you mean?” Polevault asked incredulously, taking the sparkling from the medic and holding him close, brushing a hand gently over his helm.

“Windcharger, you say you _found_ him?” Rusty stressed.

“All alone,” Windcharger sighed. “I looked but couldn’t find any creator, sire _or_ carrier. It was like he’d been abandoned!”

Cliffjumper wasn’t sure, but in his peripheral vision he thought he saw Brawn grimace, quickly turning his optics to the floor at the words. He wasn’t sure what that was in reaction to, however—was it the sickening idea that the mechling had been abandoned or the mentioning of the creators?

“Alright, that means it needs to be reported and turned over to sparkling support,” Rusty decided. “They’ll take care of him until they can find a **sponsire**.”

“So if we tell them, they’ll take him away from us?” Gears demanded, expression changing as soon as he realized how that sounded. Out of the others, Cliffjumper didn’t particularly care; he fully agreed with Gears’ possessive phrasing.

“They could give him to anyone!” he agreed harshly. “He could end up right back in—where did you find him again, Charger?”

Windcharger audibly swallowed hard, face falling as he murmured, “…By a disposal chute, under a pile of garbage.”

The silence that followed was eerie, composed entirely of speechless fury, like the calm before the crack of an acid storm. “Is _that_ what’s going to happen?” Huffer spat, vocals tight and edged in that acid.

“Rusty?” Cliff challenged, folding his arms. “It’s what’s going to happen if they find the wrong **sponsire** , you know it. You need to make sure whoever ends up on this case is gonna handle it properly! You’re a legal advocate, aren’t you? You can do that, right?”

“They are all quite capable,” Rusty tried to protest, but their expressions made it clear that they didn’t believe him, so he slumped and sighed. “I can wait one orn within my legal boundaries and then I _have_ to report this. Whoever ends up on the case is out of my control! You’re just prolonging the inevitable.” Peeking at the sparkling, he smiled a little and added more quietly, “Not that I blame you. He’s charming.”

With that, he handed him to Gears, who looked distinctly uncomfortable but held him as though he were at a breaking point. The sparkling showed his appreciation by nuzzling into Gears’ elbow and going into recharge.

“If he hasn’t purged what you gave him,” Mesh was saying to Windcharger, “he should be able to process energon normally. You’ll need to gradually increase his fuelings and put some additives in them. I’ll send you a list, alright?”

After Rusty, Polevault, and Mesh had taken their leave, awkward silence reigned over the pace until Huffer ex-vented deeply and slumped into a chair, wiping a hand over his face. “This wasn’t how I thought this evening would go,” he remarked to no one in particular. “I should’ve seen that coming.”

“That high-grade still sounds pretty good,” Gears mumbled.

“Someone has to be clear-minded to hold the sparkling,” Windcharger pointed out.

“Well, you’re the one who found him,” Gears shot back, “so why don’t you?”

“Cos he seems pretty comfortable with you!”

“Hush up,” Cliffjumper sighed. “For once, Gears, I’m agreein’ with Charger. Just keep ahold of him for now, okay?”

“Since when are you giving orders?” Gears scoffed.

“Since our leader is being uncharacteristically quiet. He has been ever since the sparkling screamed at him,” Cliffjumper stated with a pointed look at said leader. Brawn blinked at him, frowned a little as the others looked over, and then spoke.

“Are we going to keep calling him ‘the sparkling’?” he deadpanned. “Or are we giving him a nickname until support picks him up?”

“Beeper,” Windcharger announced, unhesitating. “He blinked and made some noise; that was the only reason I found him.”

“Whoever ends up taking him will change it,” Huffer predicted gloomily.

“But for now it serves,” Brawn finished for him.

Picking up the other thermal tarp from where it still lay on the floor, Cliffjumper helped Gears swaddle little Beeper more comfortably. He wasn’t about to tell the others what he was thinking, but it was a decision he’d already made.

_Beeper’s his nickname, huh? Well, why does Windcharger get the pleasure of naming him? I’m calling him Bee._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Sponsire" - Godparent and/or foster parent
> 
> As a matter of fact, Beeper is a canon nickname that some bots give Bumblebee. They just haven't reached the "Bumblebee" point yet, mostly cos they're flipping out that there's a sparkling in their house ^^"


	5. Chapter 5

“Why’s it gotta be me? All I want to do is help!” Brawn muttered as he wrenched on the controls to the wash-racks. It was very early morning now, but he definitely needed a wash after what had just happened. It had been joors since he’d told the others to try getting some recharge; it may be their orns off but they all needed the rest after the little surprise Windcharger had sprung on them. Just a few minutes ago, however, Brawn’s light recharge had been disturbed by a clatter in the kitchen. As he sat up, he found Huffer was already on his feet and at the door of the berthroom, clenching a hand around the doorframe. Clearly his recharge hadn’t been too refreshing either.

“Leave it,” Brawn hissed at him. “I’ll see what it is.” Huffer had glanced at him fretfully and Brawn rolled his shoulders, tossing aside his thermal tarp and nudging his One aside. He didn’t really think he would find an intruder, but since they’d brought a sparkling into their home that wasn’t theirs, it was better safe than sorry.

He’d found the noise was made by Gears, juggling the swaddled sparkling and two energon cubes as he made his way out of the kitchen to the lounge. Gears was grumbling as usual, mostly incoherent because he was barely online, but Brawn heard something about the sparkling recharging in a different room afterward and he couldn’t help but chuckle.

Gears blinked in his direction and then pointed out, mildly by his standards, “Well, you’re the one who likes roommates; I’m not and I don’t.” Taking a sip from one of the energon cubes, Gears set it down long enough to rub wearily at his optics and then set about coaxing the sparkling to drink some from the other. Brawn had watched his pace-mate start to fall lower in his seat and shook his helm, striding toward him.

“You’re gonna drop the little guy, Gears; pay attention,” he scolded, crouching and shaking Gears’ shoulder lightly. At that point the sparkling saw him, silhouetted in shadow, and burst into tears, flailing and knocking the energon from Gears’ hand so it splattered across his lap and Brawn’s face and chest. If little Beeper’s cries hadn’t roused the others, Brawn and Gears’ hollering did it for him.

“What’s happened now? What’re you _doin’?_ ” Cliffjumper demanded crossly, stalking down the hall as Brawn scrambled away from Gears, who was torn between cursing and crooning as he hushed Beeper’s wail. Windcharger wasn’t far behind, his expression one of resignation.

“I…” Brawn trailed off, took a deep vent and bolstered himself, growling, “I’m washing off!”

Now that the hot oil was pouring over him, Brawn found himself unwinding from a tense position he hadn’t even noticed he’d taken. Groaning, he cranked the heat up a few more notches and then promptly let his helm fall against the back of the racks with a dull thud, half-sparkedly scrubbing at the energon on his face and chassis before turning and letting the oil patter across his back, unconsciously tensing again as he did so.

He’d recognized Beeper’s frame-type as soon as he laid optics on him; he looked far too much like his carrier for there to be any mistake. Brawn had been delirious with pain and panic when he’d first seen her, but she had been the perfect target for the redirection of his anger at his old pace.

_“Sir, can you hear me? Sir?” an urgent voice cut through the blackness._

_“What—what happened?” Brawn gasped out before his optics had even come back online, clenching the sides of whatever was underneath him. It was a medical berth, hard and uncomfortable, marked with the stench of old energon stains and too much lubricant used to try bringing them out._

_“A pace-mate of yours brought you in,” whoever was speaking to him explained. “He said you’d just been shot! I’ve done what I can with the tools I have, but—”_

_“B-Blowsweep? He—Where is he? Wh-Where are the others?” Trying to push himself into a kneeling position, Brawn glanced dizzily around, gleaming golden plating catching his bewildered optics. The femme across the room was cradling a newspark with none of the joy Brawn would expect a blessing from the Creator would bring. Frown deepening, she nodded to the medic, who took a step back, holding his hands up in protest, but she held the sparkling out further, speaking sharply to him until he reluctantly took the burden from her._

_Growling in disbelief and anger, Brawn struggled onto hands and knees, but the medic attending him steered him back onto his front. “Don’t bother trying to convince her. That’s the third one.”_

His cold, sparkless carrier could very well explain how Beeper had ended up in a pile of slag, Brawn mused, internals clenching in the same rage he’d felt at the femme in the past. How anyone could abandon a helpless mechling in a world like this was incomprehensible.

Brawn wanted nothing more than to make up for what Beeper's carrier had done, _comfort_ him somehow, but he couldn’t do that if Beeper was going to scream whenever he saw him. The fear in the reedy little voice was like a shot to the spark.

By now the oil was cold and his chronometer informed him that he’d been in here for a little more than a joor, so Brawn heaved a sigh, banged his helm against the wall one last time to steel himself and got out.

The others had already put breakfast out and were taking turns letting the sparkling drink from their cubes. Brawn shoved away any hopes that tried to stir, took his own cube from the table and trudged into the second dining room. He didn’t stay alone for long, however; he could sense Huffer’s EM field pass the back of his chair as he came around to throw himself into the chair next to him.

“He’s not too fond of me either,” Huffer announced without warning. “Besides, Gears and Cliffjumper are being grabby, like they are with everything else.” Brawn managed a wan smile and Huffer propped his chin up in one hand, adding, “Don’t take it personally, Brawn; he’s not even going to be here for long. When he does leave, he won’t have you to squawk at and you won’t have to hear it anymore.”

“Real comforting,” Brawn sighed. “But I’ll still know that he was scared of me, Huffer—terrified. What’s that supposed to say of me?”

Before Huffer could answer, they heard Windcharger and Gears let out twin yelps and Cliffjumper exclaim, “Hey! What are _you_ doing here?!” Sharing an uneasy glance, the two of them pushed aside their cubes and hurried to the other room to find Cliffjumper on his feet, rocking forward and back as he usually did when he was nervous.

“Is that any way to greet us?” Cliffjumper’s sire, Skydive, scolded lightly as he came forward and hugged his creation. Cliffjumper returned it after a klik of hesitation and then his carrier pounced at him.

“We thought we would let ourselves in and surprise you! Since you just celebrated a big milestone, we wanted to make the trip; I’ve never met these pace-mates of yours and your sire has only briefly.” Overbright’s optics lit up as she released him and moved toward Windcharger and Gears, stopping short when she saw Windcharger tighten his hold on the sparkling. “Ohh,” she sighed in delight, leaning forward. “Cliffjumper! It looks like you share a frame-type with this little one!” Straightening, she cast a curious glance over her shoulder. “Cliffy—?”

“No,” Cliff burst out immediately. “I tell you everything, Carrier; trust me, you’d know. I guess that’s why he likes me, but we’re just…uh…”

“We’re watching him until his sire can be found,” Brawn finished, drawing their attention. Overbright looked him up and down with a smile.

“You must be Brawn, hm? Cliffy’s often telling us what a solid, impressive leader you are!”

“Really?” Brawn drawled, smirking at a thoroughly-embarrassed Cliffjumper. “Well, that’s _kind_ of him! I do my best for my pace-mates.”

“Yes…I’d like to talk to you about that,” Skydive announced. “Come with me, would you, please?” Warily Brawn followed the older mech outside where it was quieter, but before he could even open his mouth, Skydive questioned bluntly, “How does an Unraveler go about making a _second_ pace?”

Brawn’s optics widened and he took a step back as Cliff’s sire went on, “I’ve performed background checks on each of you and I was certainly… _taken aback_ by what I found. I’m not sure how you convinced my creation of joining what you call a pace—it’s made up of a convicted murderer, a NET patient, and though I couldn’t find anything on that other one, Huffer, I trust he has some kind of damage to his record that’s harder to see. Tell me how that’s what’s best for Cliffjumper and be convincing.”

For a full minute Brawn was speechless until he registered Skydive’s prompt and clenched his fists. “Sir,” he ground out, “all due respect, but what’s on record is nothing close to what we are. What I call my pace _is_ _my pace_ and I’ll have you know that Windcharger has served his time willingly and _continues_ to do so. Gears is not a NET patient—he’s a _former_ patient who got a programming reset and is saner than your own creation sometimes! Huffer is my One. Yes, he’s damaged, and that makes him the victim, not the offender! I’ve come to accept being called an Unraveler, so if you think that’s going to faze me or make me back down, think again. Your creation came of his own free right and will and I refuse to see the others slandered because you think they’re not good enough for him! I value all of them equally and if you think you can shame a single mech in _my_ house, in _my_ pace, you can go right back to Solus and not see Cliffjumper for another thirty vorns!”

To Brawn’s slight disappointment, Skydive’s face was still just as unreadable as it had been when they’d stepped out. “Cliffjumper made the right choice, then,” he remarked, nodding contemplatively. Brawn blinked, starting to form a question, and Skydive waved a hand before folding his arms. “I wanted to know you were fully committed to making sure that your second pace had a different fate than the one you had before. I just…needed to make sure that my creation is in safe hands. He seems to trust all of you, despite your mottled pasts.”

Brawn ex-vented sharply, surprisingly relieved. “If I let myself, I could be as bad as Huffer with the worrying, but he worries enough for both of us. It’s been hard to get where we are with CJ, I’ll admit it. He finds a new way to snap at us every orn, but he’s stayed. That means I have to be doing something right.”

“Then keep doing it,” Skydive urged, turning to go back inside and then pausing at the door. “If you don’t, you might find I’ve let myself in one orn.”

“Then you might find you’ll have a fight on your hands,” Brawn warned.

“For my mechling, I do hope I will,” Skydive parried, glancing over his shoulder with a grin eerily reminiscent of Cliff.

On this note, the two of them returned inside, earning a wary glance from Cliffjumper as he propped Beeper up for his carrier to see. Brawn waved at him, letting him know that things were fine.

They had a long and animated visit with Cliffjumper’s creators and Brawn was glad to note that by the end of it, he and Skydive seemed to be on respectable terms. Overbright loved the entire pace, particularly Huffer, who she deemed was the caretaker of the group. Brawn could tell he appreciated the idea, even when they picked up on Gears quietly scoffing and Windcharger elbowing him.

After Skydive and Overbright were out the door, Cliffjumper began pacing the hall to calm the worn-out Beeper and Huffer glanced at Brawn, pointing out, “We need to make a plan, just in case anyone else makes a surpri—”

No sooner had he spoken that there was a tap against the door. “Now what?” Windcharger sighed, undoing the locking code he had just typed. As soon as the door slid open, he took a few steps back. “Who are you?”

Gears, who was bringing the unfinished energon cubes into the lounge, froze in his tracks with a sharp exclamation: “Hightop!”


	6. Chapter 6

“Hello, all of you,” Hightop greeted, smiling politely at all of them, optics lingering on Windcharger. “May I come in?”

“Of course you can, sir!” Huffer assured him, forcing a smile in return, mind racing to find a reason for their manager’s visit as he hurried around, sweeping up any sign that there was anyone but the five of them here. If Hightop noticed one extra energon cube, he might not think much of it, but Huffer wasn’t going to take that risk.

He had no idea how Hightop would react if he found out about Beeper. What if he gave them some kind of mandatory leave for him until everything was settled? It would cost them; even if they were in this house and had a longstanding offer of support from Cliffjumper’s creators, Huffer maintained a mindset that it should never be counted on.

“I’m sorry, the—the lounge is a bit of a mess,” he stammered, bunching up several of the stray thermal tarps that had been pulled out for the sparkling.

“Oh, it’s alright,” Hightop assured him. “I can tell my visit is a bit of a surprise; we scheduled this several diuns ago, so it would be easy to forget. I’m sorry for any inconvenience!”

Resisting the urge to grimace as he recalled they had in fact planned a get-together for this orn, Huffer shook his helm vigorously. “No, no apologies necessary! I’ll just get these thermal tarps into a closet and be right back!” So saying, he rushed into the hallway, relieved to see one of the berthroom doors already sliding closed. He lunged through the gap just in time and dumped the pile of tarps on the floor.

“What’s Hightop doing here?” Cliffjumper demanded, keeping his voice low and tight so as not to stir the recharging mechling over his shoulder.

“Remember the fueltime we scheduled diuns ago? It’s supposed to happen now,” Huffer hissed back, earning a wince. “Here, take this energon cube; you’ll need to stay in here until he leaves.”

“How long’s that gonna be?!” When Huffer gave him a pointed look, Cliff sighed deeply and sank onto the floor. “Fine. I’ll give this energon to Bee if he wakes up. Try not to be too loud out there.”

“Hightop’s not a loud mech,” Huffer reassured him, pausing at the door to glance back and add curiously, “Bee, huh?”

As he stepped out, he saw what could be construed as his worst nightmare: Hightop holding out a hand to Windcharger. “I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced,” he was saying. “Are you…ah, Cliffjumper?”

Huffer glanced wildly at Gears and Brawn, who remained where they were, unable to move, to intervene, but they were clearly thinking the same thing. Steeling himself, Huffer moved to put a hand on Windcharger’s arm, squeezing it tightly.

“No, this is our **trilitare** ,” he stated brightly. “Cliffjumper isn’t here. His—his creators dropped by unexpectedly. This is…” He couldn’t think of an alias quickly enough. “This is Windcharger.” Reining in his nervous EM field, he put the other hand on Hightop’s shoulder. “Charger, this is Hightop, our manager, who oversees our worksites…all of them.”

Huffer could feel Windcharger suppress the urge to stiffen as he took the hand. “Pleased to meet you, Sir Hightop,” he greeted, managing a smile—a very small, tense one, but it was there.

 _Primus, please, oh,_ please _don’t let Hightop realize who Windcharger is and what he did!_ Huffer prayed in desperation.

“Pleased to meet you,” Hightop returned, no sign of recognition or suspicion in his voice. In Huffer’s peripheral vision, he could see Brawn and Gears relax to some extent. Glancing around at them, Hightop pulled a familiar board from his subspace and offered, “I brought Tadek for later, if you care to play.”

“That sounds great,” Brawn agreed, “but I’m also going to make sure we get you on the basketrek court sometime while you’re here—how about after we refuel?”

Setting the Tadek board on the nearby table, Hightop nodded thoughtfully. “That should be interesting,” he said mildly. Huffer wasn’t sure what to make of that, but he decided not to ask and went into the kitchen instead, ex-venting slowly to calm his nerves.

 _He’s going to find out, I know it! Something’s going to go wrong and he’ll find out about Beeper. Then he’ll start asking questions…Who knows what he’ll think? Who knows if he even_ likes _sparklings?!_ Come to think of it, Huffer had never seen Hightop outside of the work atmosphere, so there was very little he actually knew about his personal life. He had a feeling Gears knew some bits and pieces, but they hadn’t been prepared for this visit and Gears hadn’t gotten a chance to fill them in on what those bits and pieces might be.

“You have a very nice house,” Hightop stated, peering into the kitchen and raising an eyebrow as Huffer startled. “Are you alright? You seem on edge.”

“I—well, t-to be honest, I’m nervous,” Huffer blurted out. “I just want to be sure we don’t do anything that gets us in trouble—but we probably will.”

“Listen, Huffer, I’m not here as your manager,” Hightop reminded him kindly. “It’s just energon and a few games; it’s simple, even simpler than what you do on the worksites. Heh, if you want, you can think of this visit as another building project: we’re building bridges.”

“That helps a lot actually,” Huffer admitted with a sheepish smile which disappeared in favor of surprise when Hightop laughed. As far as Huffer could remember, that rarely happened, if ever, which may be why Gears and Hightop still got along as well as they did. Shuffling those thoughts into a subfolder, he pulled a fresh energon cube out for Hightop and then returned to the lounge with him.

“When I came, I had resolved not to talk about work, seeing as I was meeting others in your pace for the first time and I didn’t want to be exclusive,” Hightop admitted once they were seated. “However, you’re some of my senior officers and I know you don’t tend to appreciate surprises, so I wanted to give you the news now, before you come back to work next quintun and it’s put into action.”

“What is?” Gears asked suspiciously.

“I’ve been to several meetings with the supervisors of the other construction companies in this sector, as well as those that are just across the Maximus border. It’s been proposed that some mergers be made,” Hightop explained. “Nothing’s official yet, but we’re going to give it a trial run next quintun—bring some workers from another company onto the site and see how well they work with you.”

 _Just what we need: new workers making worse everything that the usual workers slag up,_ Huffer wanted to say, but he was more than certain Hightop wouldn’t appreciate that, so he swallowed it in favor of, “Thanks for letting us know.”

“No problem. With that, I’m done discussing work,” Hightop promised. “I’m looking forward to that basketrek game. Where are the courts?”

Brawn smirked, pointing toward the ceiling. “We had a half-court installed up top. Cliff and Windcharger are fond of playing.”

“Ahh, so are you the reigning champion, Windcharger? I also look forward to winning that title,” Hightop teased, to the disbelief of his three workers.

“You look forward to recharging tonight, you mean?” Windcharger countered lightly. “Because clearly that’s only a dream.”

“Shall we find out?”

“Alright!” Brawn cheered, making sure his voice carried enough that Cliff could overhear. “Let’s head up to the roof!”

Upon taking the cybre-glass stairway up to the roof, Hightop began circling the half-court, watching his own feet. Brawn and Huffer shared a curious glance as Gears moved forward, calling out to him to ask what he was doing.

“I’m getting used to the court,” Hightop replied. “Feeling it out.”

“What’s there to feel out?” Gears inquired, bewildered. “It’s just a normal court!”

“What’s normal to you may be quite the change for me,” their manager pointed out with a smile, optics lighting up as Windcharger tossed him one of their two ballobots. He dropped it almost immediately, fumbling with it as it tried to roll back to Windcharger. “Oh, are you a stubborn one?” he addressed it, cornering it a bit awkwardly and managing to catch hold of it, examining it closely even as it squirmed to escape.

“Charger!” Brawn rebuked. “Don’t give him the one that likes _you!_ That may as well be cheating!”

At that, Hightop turned toward a properly-chastised Windcharger. “You’re clever,” he remarked, barely seeming miffed at the news. “But I have some experience, don’t worry. My pace’s **trilitare** has a ballobot which hated me at first—or rather, he _had_ it. Now it’s on my side.”

“ **Trilitaren** think alike then,” Windcharger huffed. “If you don’t mind my asking…”

“I’m the **quanidre** ,” Hightop answered his unfinished question. “Don’t take my lower rank at face value, though. I can still turn your ballobot, as I turned my older brother’s.”

 _He’s a **quanidre** and a younger brother to the **trilitare** ,_ Huffer noted in a subfolder. He hadn’t been expecting either of these data points, but he knew Cliffjumper would be disappointed that he couldn’t play against a fellow **quanidre** , especially one that boasted of greater skill than Windcharger. _At least the fact that we’re up here gives Cliffjumper a little venting room_.

Hightop proceeded to win two out of the four games played, leaving both he and Windcharger impressed but not quite satisfied to leave the new rivalry there. “Perhaps we can settle this with Tadek,” Hightop suggested. As Windcharger nodded, Huffer could see the competitive spark in him that often infuriated Cliffjumper to no end.

“Let’s all play,” Huffer piped up, hoping it would persuade the two to spread their edges out a little. He didn’t, however, expect it to do just the opposite, as their manager and their pace-mate soundly eliminated what they apparently thought were the “extraneous” players and brought it down to a one-on-one game.

“I must say, this has been nice,” Hightop remarked as he moved his stack of tiles, sending light through the surface of the board. “Most of my pace-mates aren’t too competitive, so facing new opponents is refreshing.”

“Really? What’re your mates like?” Windcharger asked.

“There are five of us. Our pace-leader is Springstep, then there’s Yardarm, my brother Zephyr, myself, and Edifice. Springstep and Yardarm are very close but very different—much like Brawn and Huffer, I’d say. They work in the shipyards, which they say is dull because no **verriesen** ever come to Culumex. Zephyr, Edifice and I are in the construction business…” Hightop trailed off as Windcharger moved his stack of tiles several spaces ahead. “Oh, you distracted me!”

“I’ve learned it’s always a good idea to call in the pace-mates if I’m in a tight place,” Windcharger replied with a guiltless grin. “But that might not always mean my _own_ pace-mates.” Their tiles were nearing the front of the board again, where the disqualified players’ tile towers stood.

“Why didn’t you stop him?” Hightop demanded of the others.

“I was busy listening,” Brawn protested.

“I’ve been dealing with these empty energon cubes,” Huffer claimed.

“Eh, I liked his strategy,” Gears announced, earning the brunt of Hightop’s sour stare before he moved his tiles. Windcharger snickered as he watched.

“Ohh, my apologies, Sir Hightop, but you’ve just doomed your game,” he declared, moving toward what was known as a triple quadra hent, a difficult move, but one that would win him the game.

“Windcharger, did I mention that you look strangely familiar?” Hightop asked, causing Windcharger to startle. His tile tower wobbled and collapsed noisily, which nearly made Huffer drop the energon cubes. He cast an alarmed glance at Brawn, who was already half-turned in the direction of the room where Beeper was supposed to be recharging.

“I’ve heard that before,” Windcharger mustered in response as he started sweeping up the fallen tiles. “I guess I just have one of those faces—”

“Windcharger, no!” Huffer cried as the other mech’s elbow gently brushed a piece at the base of Brawn’s tower. It wavered, almost in slow-motion, and then Brawn’s pace looked on in horror as it slid, colliding with the second and third and taking them down with a thunderous crash.

Right on cue, a certain _something_ in the other room began buzzing and Gears let out his own strangled noise to cover it. “That’s some grace you have there, Windcharger! C’mon, you’re helping me pick these up!”

“I’m sorry!” Windcharger squeaked.

“It’s alright,” Hightop brushed it off, rising to help Gears out by gathering the scattered pieces closer to the hallway. Brawn rushed to intercept, picking them up before he could and pressing them into his hands so he would return to the table.

The buzzing was getting louder, loud enough that Hightop paused, opened his mouth to form a question, and Windcharger interrupted him. “Sorry, it’s my augmentation,” he explained nervously. “Magnetism. It happens when I’m embarrassed.”

 _At least he’s not lying,_ Huffer mused apprehensively. _But Hightop’s sure to see right through him anyway…_

“When I get high-wired like this, I—I like to play music,” Windcharger went on. “It calms me right down, you see. Would you mind?”

“No, I don’t mind,” Hightop answered cautiously. With a hurried smile, the performer leapt to his feet and strode quickly down the hall to retrieve his vlin. Upon bringing it back, he launched into a song not unlike a lullaby, one of several that would follow, and Huffer waited anxiously for the buzzing to quiet. By the seventh one, it seemed like Beeper had calmed down, but Huffer was aghast to note that Brawn and Gears, the most recharge-deprived out of them, weren’t entirely exempt from the effect either, so he covertly kicked both of them under the table where they were sitting, earning jumps from both that weren’t as subtle.

“Stayed up late for your **fratersarien**?” Hightop commented. “I understand that; I’ll take my leave now.” As Huffer started to protest, he added, “You’re not driving me off, Huffer. I’ve quite enjoyed this! Although, I _will_ want another match with Windcharger on the court.”

“Maybe the full-size courts across the way,” Gears suggested. “There’s more room.” The _“and one less sparkling”_ was heavily implied only to those who knew.

As soon as the front door closed behind Hightop, Huffer rushed to lock it. “Go let Cliffjumper out!” he ordered, but Cliff was already stalking out with the sparkling pinned against his side, happily drooling salve-fluid on the forearm that kept him there.

“If I stay locked in Gears’ room for a whole fraggin’ orn ever again, tell me ahead of time so I won’t _starve!_ ” he snarled. “I had to give all of the energon to him!”

“It’s not like we were expecting it either,” Brawn shot back, armor billowing menacingly as the comm. unit nearby trilled. “Fraggit. _Fraggit_. Why does everyone want to get ahold of us now?!” Jamming the audio-only button, he barked, “This had better be one of the Thirteen Primes or I’m hanging up and blocking your comm. code!”

“It’s _Rustimus_ Prime,” Rusty answered dryly, causing the pace to perk up. “I have news. The sparkling agency is going to take the case, but presently they’re backed up. There’s an influx of adoptions right now, so they need you to keep ahold of the mechling a while longer.”

“How long is ‘a while’?” Huffer asked nervously.

“From the looks of it, they want him to stay with you for another quintun.”

“That long?!” A klik later Huffer wished he didn’t sound quite so dismayed as Beeper perked up, chirruping curiously and blinking those wide, sweet optics at him. It melted his spark just a little, which allowed him a more subdued tone as he went on, “A quintun, Rusty, it’s a long time to deal with Beeper. Anything could happen! We—we have work!”

“I can stay with him,” Windcharger piped up. “My schedule’s my own.”

“Well, like Huffer says, it can be considered a long time,” Rusty agreed. “I needed to submit background checks for—”

“Are you _glitched?!_ ” Brawn shouted at the same time Gears started spitting curses and Windcharger looked like he wanted to sink into the floor.

“—for Huffer and Cliffjumper!” Rusty finished, raising his voice to be heard over them, which gave them pause. “They check out perfectly and the agency has cleared you to care for him for the quintun. I hope you’ll agree? You made the point that they could give him to anyone.”

Huffer sent Brawn a pleading glance, which Brawn returned with resignation. Both of them already knew what the verdict would be when Rusty put it like that. “One quintun of recharge-deprivation and, for me, avoiding the little lugnut…We can handle that.”

“I’m glad; I know you’ll take good care of him.” There was a small burst of static and then Rusty ventured again, “Beeper? That’s rather straightforward.”

“And Brawn, Huffer, Gears, Windcharger, and Cliffjumper aren’t? You’re saying _Rusty_ isn’t straightforward?” Brawn shot back sourly before hanging up and wiping his hands down his face. “I’m gonna recharge. Anyone got a problem with that?”

Gears scoffed, already pushing past him to his own room. “You better not have touched anything, Cliffjumper!”

“Have a fit, for all I care,” Cliff grumbled, shoving Beeper into Huffer’s arms before trudging further down the hall. Windcharger’s door was already closing.

“Night, little One,” Brawn called wearily as he too disappeared. This left Huffer standing in the front room, holding the mechling and doing his very best to pay no attention when the even littler little one squealed and purred, no matter how endearing it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When you're a writer, there is irony everywhere!
> 
>  
> 
> Zephyr, Hightop's pace-mate and older brother, was Brawn's former boss who fired him...Just mentioning that.


	7. Chapter 7

Gears had found it increasingly hard to resist smiling since Polevault had told them her news of Rusty’s proposal and her acceptance. With the sparkling constantly wanting attention, his struggle was even _worse_. The Beepling, as Gears had privately taken to calling him, was the sweetest little thing a Culumexian adult could imagine and, being just that, Gears wasn’t exempt from the effect.

Their second orn off had thankfully passed without much incident, but before Gears had gone into recharge last night, Huffer had barged in and planted Beeper in the mountain of tarps on the floor, ignoring Gears’ protests as he half-sparkedly waved and abandoned him. Since Beeper was now the only other mech in the room, Gears had naturally ranted at him instead.

“I trust you’re going to disturb my recharge! I don’t want you getting used to that; next thing you know, you’re going to be with another mech and his pace who will probably get along with you much better than my pace can! That’ll be a relief for both of us!”

Then the little one had squeaked and Gears looked over to see him flapping his arms, throwing the edges of the tarps about. Making a medical note of the abnormal warmth in his chest, Gears slowly, gingerly picked him up and put him on the edge of the berth before climbing up after him. “You don’t understand a word I’m saying,” he mumbled. “So it’s not like you can appreciate it.” Beeper had simply vibrated at him and Gears huffed. “You want a berthtime story, don’t you? Fine. Hmm…once there were two Culumexian mechs who went to one of the big **verriesen** cities, Praxus, and just when one of them was getting homesick, he saw something shining nearby. When they searched, they saw a Praxian crystal.

“It’s said that those are some of the most beautiful crystals on Cybertron, but the homesick one just said, ‘This may be a treasure to mechs who want them, but I’d take a single beam from Culumex than a horde of these.’ I guess the point is that precious things are for bots who can _really_ treasure them…Clearly whoever left you didn’t understand that.” Very lightly laying a hand over Beeper’s chamfron, he’d lowered his voice. “You’re going to be given to a very good **sponsire**. We’re going to make sure of that.”

Gears had decided this morning to keep his “conversation” with the Beepling to himself; he wasn’t about to have Cliffjumper laughing at him or Brawn making some remark about his edges softening. Even worse than that would be Windcharger’s smirks or Huffer’s comments about him getting too attached. He was glad that they were finally getting to the worksite again so the sparkling’s strange effect on him would wear off for a while. Solid work could cure—well, it could actually cure very little, if Gears’ constant state was any indication, but this warmth and the urge to _smile_ may be an exception. After all, the new workers brought by the mergers were coming for a trial run and Gears intended to keep a close optic on them.

After his programming was balanced, Gears had been relieved to find his coworkers didn’t treat him too differently; even when he was their happy manager, he had been treated with a touch of wariness, for good reason. Who knew what dangers befriending an Alchemist resident could bring to a normal mech?

With the drastic change in his temperament and position, their behavior was the same, wary but respectful, something he could trust and react to as he pleased. That had been good for him. These new workers were strangers—not only that, they came from Maximus, an entirely different sector, and Gears would be interested to see how they treated him and the others.

Hightop was just making the announcement of the new mechs, explaining the situation and how they were to treat the visitors and fill them in on the project. Gears, Huffer, and Brawn were already entirely taken up with their work in their corners of the worksite, barely needing to pay attention because they had received advance notice. Even so, Gears watched his coworkers glance at each other, whispering in confusion.

“Why do we need more workers?” Cloudshift was probably saying. “We’re doing just fine!”

“Well, obviously Hightop doesn’t think so,” Blitzglitch might reply. “He wants us to step it up and get more finished in an orn.”

“Maybe some new faces will help with that, do us some good,” Polevault would likely chime in. “And if they don’t, the boss can always exchange them.”

With this scenario playing in his mind, Gears scanned the new workers as they arrived, mouth twisting skeptically. There were six of them, four mechs and two femmes—a pace? Somehow Gears doubted it. Most of them didn’t look too promising, but a couple of the mechs were bulky; that would either help or give Brawn a complex as bad as Windcharger in basketrek.

Hightop was dismissing the crew now, clearly hoping they would mingle with their potential teammates, but even as Cloudshift waved at a couple of them, Blitzglitch pivoted and strode away as though they had never been there. Polevault managed a smile at the two femmes; they both smiled back, though one of them seemed just a little condescending.

“I think this might be good for them,” Hightop commented as he approached. “What do you think?”

“I’m the supplies manager; why are you asking me?” Gears asked bluntly.

With a chiding look, Hightop folded his arms expectantly. “Because you’re also my former right hand, Gears, and I want your opinion—your input—on whether or not you think this will work out.”

“I don’t know,” Gears admitted. “I think we’ve been doing well without them, but I guess some new energon around here might freshen us up.” So saying, he glanced over toward the mech who seemed like the leader of the group, who was wandering around the site, nodding thoughtfully. Then he paused, frowned for a klik or two and then brightened again, striding toward the area where Huffer was working.

Gears watched as he gripped Huffer’s shoulder, pulled him upright and greeted him, which seemed normal enough, but what happened next came as a surprise: Huffer froze at the touch, going as limp as he could without sinking onto the ground, and maintained that position as though he were paralyzed. Gears hadn’t seen him look like that in vorns, not since his long stint of paranoia after his abduction. That and the fact that Brawn had just broken into a fast stride clued him in that something was wrong, but he didn’t know what. Brawn barked at the new mech, though from this distance Gears couldn’t hear what he was saying, and the other mech lifted his hands and gestured placatingly, bobbing a short bow to the both of them as he spoke. Brawn replied by baring his teeth, snatching at Huffer’s arm and steering him away. Huffer stiffened, shuttered his optics and shook his helm violently but didn’t try to stop.

 _It’s just Brawn and Huffer being themselves,_ Gears decided, rolling his optics. _They trust strangers as far as they can throw them…but knowing them, that’s a pretty far way._

Either way, Gears still had work to do. Picking up his most recent list, he transformed and headed out. By the time he returned with the materials he’d purchased, everyone else was on their mid-orn fuel break. Cloudshift had apparently been invited to sit with the newcomers and had welcomed the opportunity; he was chatting with them easily, though as Gears came into audial range, he heard Cloudshift call to Blitzglitch, “Hey, you wanna join us? There’s room!”

Blitzglitch glanced in his direction, his expression one of distaste, his vocals dripping it as he grunted, “No, thanks,” and strode toward Polevault.

To his coworkers, Blitzglitch was known as a perceptive mech; some even said seeing through others was his augmentation, and his opinion was well-respected. Gears trusted his intuition when it came to other bots, as did Cloudshift, who now looked distinctly uncomfortable with where he was sitting but managed an apologetic smile at the subjects of Blitz’s disdain.

Setting aside the materials for others to sort, Gears approached Blitzglitch and Polevault. “Why are you sitting over here?” he asked, sinking down across from them.

“Instead of with the new arrivals? I don’t know. I just…get a strange feeling about them,” Polevault admitted. “They kind of make my plating itch.”

Gears blinked, taken aback. “So it’s not just you, Blitz?”

“No,” Blitzglitch assured him solemnly. “It’s your pace-mates too. Your leader’s been giving them dirty looks all afternoon and your One’s avoiding them like they’re Scraplets, but they keep following ’em, just smiling like there’s nothing wrong. There’s something off and I don’t like it _or_ them.”

“Maybe it’s time I introduced myself then,” Gears muttered, getting back to his feet and leaving his cube untouched as he approached Cloudshift and the outsiders. “Hey,” he greeted, sitting in the empty place Cloudshift had pointed out for Blitzglitch. “I’m Gears, the supplies manager here.”

“Sir,” the leader of the newcomers hailed with a charming smile.

“Gears used to be the foremech of the site,” Cloudshift added.

The leader paused, looking Gears up and down thoughtfully as though wondering what to call him with this added information. “…Sir?” Gears shrugged, uncaring, and the other mech leaned across to hold out a hand. “Remix, at your service.”

“Sure,” Gears agreed with a closed smile. “So what d’you think of our place? Have you…seen anyone you know?”

“This site’s nice,” Remix assured him. “Not what I’m used to, but it would definitely serve if we get to stay. As for the bots, well, they’re giving us a cold shoulder, but it’s probably just cos we’re strangers. I’ve gotten that before. Ha, once a mech I didn’t even know charged up to me, high-wired as the Pits, and punched me! We were in a tavern, you understand, so he was probably just overcharged, but you know how taverns go; it turned into an all-out brawl and I barely got out with my skidplate! Fortunately I got to spread the news about that mech and made sure he lost his reputation for it. Actually, his boss _fired_ him for it! He had to find work somewhere else. Served him right, too!”

Seized with a sudden, deep-seated discomfort, Gears tensed, optics narrowing as he listened to the story, which sounded uncannily familiar: two mechs in a bar, an ensuing brawl, the dishonor of the one who had started it and his need to find work from someone who wouldn’t mind his—

 _Slaggin’ Pits_. Gears felt his spark pulse skyrocket and he scrambled back upright, knocking over the oil drum on which he was sitting and receiving blank looks. He didn’t even acknowledge them as he stalked toward Brawn, who came to meet him at the halfway point.

“Slaggin’ Pits, Brawn, they’re the ones who had Huffer before you got him out!” Gears hissed. He had heard the story, of course, when Brawn had a little too much high-grade, but he never could have expected Hightop to inadvertently bring it so close to home. _I should have seen it._

“I know who they are,” Brawn growled. “They’ve been harassing him the whole orn, calling him ‘their apprentice’, following him around, anything just short of actually touching him. The klik they do, I swear to Primus I’m ripping an arm off!”

“It’s not gonna get that far,” Gears snapped. “I’m telling Hightop exactly wh—”

“No!” Huffer burst out, drawing Gears’ attention from where he had slumped against a pile of beams. “No, Gears,” he repeated weakly. “Just…let it go, okay? I can’t let them get us in trouble again.”

Indignant, Gears planted his hands on his hips. “Who says we’d be the ones in trouble?! I’m gonna tell him what they did! If I don’t, they might get assigned here permanently and you’re looking ready to go into hysterics after orn one!”

Huffer rose, venting shallowly. “I’m just trying to forget what they did, okay? It was all a long time ago and I…I can get over it. Re—” He badly suppressed a shudder. “Remix said he wants to make things right—”

“That’s a load of scrap!” Brawn barked, ex-venting and trying to gentle his tone as he continued, “It’s scrap, all of it. They’re acting like you’re something to be stepped on, Huffer, and that means they haven’t learned a fraggin’ thing since I thrashed ’em in that tavern.” Huffer still said nothing and Brawn twitched a little as though resisting the urge to grab him and shake him. “These are the mechs who trapped you in a fraggin’ _toolbox_ for an orn, Huffer! There’s no way they can make up for—”

“They did _what?_ ” Gears spat. Huffer cringed, vents hitching wordlessly, and Gears glared in return, whirling around and storming toward Hightop, but even as he did so, he recalled the leverage that Remix and the others had on Brawn: they knew he was an Unraveler; that was how they had gotten him fired from his first job. No matter how deep a friendship he and Hightop had, Gears doubted he would appreciate that revelation. Most everyone on the worksite knew except Hightop and if he were to find out like this…

 _Huffer’s right,_ Gears realized. _They’ll royally frag us if we try anything._ He faltered to a stop as he reached his manager, who gave him a questioning look. “Huffer’s off-kilter,” he forced out. “Looking ready to purge…his, ah, his new energon is slagging his systems. Can he have a half-orn? He needs to get home now.” If Remix and the others stayed, Gears had a feeling this would become a familiar request.

“I suppose that’s alright,” Hightop allowed, giving him a strange look. Gears offered a tense smile in return and headed back toward his pace-mates, latching onto Huffer’s arm and dragging him toward the exit. He felt a sharp stab of guilt at the way Huffer yelped and strained against the firm treatment but it was for his own good! Couldn't he see that?

“Hightop’s given you a half-orn,” he explained over Huffer’s protests. “I’m taking you home this slaggin’ minute, so shut up and walk!”

“Gears, just because I have a half-orn doesn’t mean you do!” Huffer complained. “If you leave, Hightop’s going to—Gears, _stop!_ ” Wrenching his arm out of Gears’ grasp, Huffer took a nanoklik to collect himself and then snapped, “I’m perfectly _fine_ and I can walk on my own!”

“Well—well, I’m going to make sure they’re not waiting for you, then!” Gears countered, moving ahead of him toward the exit and poking his helm around corners, anywhere a mech could hide for an ambush. To his relief, he found no one, until he turned around.

In that short span of time, Remix and his crew had closed in from all sides. Huffer seemed to shrink as he was surrounded, optics paling, frame strung tense, though whether that was in fight or flight, Gears didn’t know. All he knew was that somebody shoved, Huffer tensed further, shoved back hard enough to knock them down, and then the largest of the group swung a fist.

No sooner had the blow connected did Gears and Brawn break into a sprint, but before they could reach their destination, someone else intervened, tearing through the barricade Remix’s followers had created and catching the next strike halfway, squeezing until its owner gasped in pain.

“Let—go— _now_ ,” Hightop commanded in a hiss just barely audible. Gears skidded to a stop, pinwheeling his arms to remain upright as he gaped at his manager, who was still tightening his grip on the offending hand. The mech subject to it, at least a foot taller than Hightop, threw the other fist, only for Hightop to intercept that one too and force him back several steps.

“What?” Polevault prompted as she strolled toward Hightop and the mech who was starting to look like his prey, her optics dark despite her nonchalant demeanor. “A big mech like you can’t handle a friendly game of **veraltuor**? Our manager’s adept at it, as you can see.”

“ _Yield_ ,” Hightop growled, crushing further and further until he earned a reedy yelp. Finally he released him, pivoting and striding toward the others, who stared at him in shock, some taking a few steps back as he came near. “You’re going to ask for a reassignment, Remix,” he proclaimed as Huffer scrambled onto his feet. “It’s not a request. You’re going to do it _now_.”

“A reassignment to where?” Remix demanded.

“I don’t know and I don’t care,” Hightop declared, tilting his helm. “But you’re going to leave my worksite and if I see you again near _any_ of my workers, your hands might be irreparable in the end. We wouldn’t want that, would we?”

Before Remix could speak again, Huffer shook himself, pushed past Hightop’s shoulder and punched his former tormentor with such force that he fell and spun a half circle as he skidded across the ground. “You fragger!” the engineer howled. “If _I_ ever see you again, there won’t be enough _left_ to repair in the end! You think you can just come back and ruin my life a second time?! _Think again!_ I’d have you begging like you had me, you filthy, slaggin’—”

“Stop, stop,” Brawn ordered, catching hold of him from behind and dragging him back several yards until he stopped struggling, panting and shivering with unreleased adrenaline.

As Remix and the others collected themselves and rushed off, an incredulous Gears shuffled toward Hightop, who gazed coolly back as if nothing had happened.

“How’d you know to come and help?” Gears asked at last.

“Please, Gears,” Hightop huffed. “If your comment about new energon putting Huffer off-kilter hadn’t been enough, your smile made the evidence overwhelming.”

 _A smile as a distress call?_ Gears mused, scoffing lightly as Hightop brushed himself down.  _Well, if_ _it had to work for anyone, I guess it works for me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Veraltuor: the Culumexian version of that hand-game, Mercy
> 
> While I was _this_ close to having Cliffjumper show up for some reason and kick aft, in his absence Hightop is and _always_ will be made of win! XD


	8. Chapter 8

_The others will be glad to have a break,_ Windcharger mused as he and Beeper wandered the house, searching for something to do. _This’ll give them some time to relax; they just don’t know sparklings like I do!_

“Do they?” he murmured to Beeper, as though he could read his thoughts. “No, it’s just you and me for now, little mech. I hope you don’t mind. You don’t, do you?” Hoisting the golden mechling further up in his arms, he whispered, “You do _act_ like Gears and Cliffjumper are your favorites, but I know better! It’ll be our secret, won’t it? Yes, it will.”

Beeper very nearly hit him in the optic as he reached for his face and warbled, a sweet sound that reminded Windcharger that he was doing much better. After a few orns of solid refueling, it was almost like he hadn’t been malnourished at all—almost. If it hadn’t been for the small things, Windcharger might have really believed it.

Even at this tender age, most Culumexian sparklings were constantly grabbing at things; the time spent in their first frame was often nicknamed the Danger Zone. This was the time when most anything served as a building block for the sparkling, even adults. The little one would grab anything from a stylus to a keycard and mash them together, trying to find out how they might fit. When that inevitably failed, it wouldn’t be too much of a surprise if the sparkling would grab a creator’s hand and press that on top of the two objects, clearly believing—even insisting—that a creator’s presence would fix the faulty device.

Not long after that, the inquisitive mechling or femmeling might realize they had ways of getting access to the _better_ materials, things like data pads and music datatrax that hadn’t been placed high enough to be safe. They would begin experimenting with the strength that befitted their people, pulling on things with much more force and finding ways to break and make all sorts of contraptions.

When Windcharger himself was little, he had seen some of his friends’ creators even kept their sparklings’ disastrous mashups, their first inventions, as a form of memorabilia. Young Windcharger had been bitterly, hopelessly jealous, since his own creators had never kept any of his own and he didn’t remember any part of what he had made. Perhaps it was why Windcharger had opted not to go into the construction business, as other Culumexians so often did.

Either Beeper had never been exposed to what he should have for his growth, which was distressingly plausible, or he didn’t yet have the strength for it, which was unnerving. Since he’d started refueling properly, his optics were clear but they were pale, not quite standing up to that spark Windcharger had been seeing in little ones for many vorns. He had that innate curiosity, yes, but he wasn’t nearly as eager as Charger might expect from a sparkling his age.

After the others had left for work, Windcharger had made a quick call to Mesh, Rusty’s medically-trained pace-mate, and was further unnerved to learn that Beeper was older than Windcharger had assumed, nearly the midpoint of his first-frame tenure. That made his behavior, his weakness, even stranger.

 _For all I know, he could just be a late builder,_ he tried to reassure those thoughts even as others crept through the cracks: _For all I know, he could have been starving long before I found him. Will he ever be quite…right? And who knows if a **sponsire** will accept a sparkling like that?_

Internals clenching with concern and determination, Windcharger scanned the house for something to hand the sparkling, something that Beeper could examine and hopefully think of as an incomplete machine. His optics finally rested on a package of rust sticks that Cliffjumper had brought home. A rust stick would be interesting and if Beeper happened to put it in his mouth, it was edible. Thus decided, he took out one of the sticks and encouraged the sparkling to hold it.

Beeper studied it closely, twisting his hand every which way to see it from all angles, and then promptly threw it across the kitchen, giggling as Windcharger sighed.

“Well, alright,” he huffed. “Let’s figure out what you can play with.” The box of Garbage O’s caught his attention next, but he had a feeling he knew how Gears would react if Beeper were to waste his precious fuel somehow. “Oh!”

Setting the sparkling on the floor, Windcharger hurried toward Brawn and Huffer’s room, examining the small storage unit in which Brawn kept his collection of windup figurines, the ones he always snatched before the Garbage O’s boxes were thrown away. Gathering three or four of the simpler ones, he set them up in front of Beeper, who twittered uncertainly.

“These are for you,” he assured him, rolling one toward him. The mechling’s optics scrunched up dubiously as he picked it up and then dropped it, repeating the cycle a few times before smiling widely as he realized it wouldn’t break.

“That’s better,” Windcharger praised. They rolled it back and forth for several minutes until there was a sharp knock on the door. “Who’s that?” Windcharger wondered in a pedal tone, answered by a bewildered whistle from his companion.

As the door slid open, Windcharger discovered a muted blue-and-green femme, who glanced up from the data pad she was holding and smiled when she saw him, but it was brief and her optics were cool.

“Um…hello. Can I help you?” Windcharger asked warily.

“Good afternoon. I’m Interim of Vector and I’ve been assigned to the case of the sparkling who was found and brought here.” Glancing at her data pad a second time, she added, “This house is registered to Cliffjumper of Epistemus—that would be you, sir?”

Windcharger felt his spark leap into his throat at the words and he tried to run over what had just been revealed to him in three sentences: this was someone from the sparkling agency, assuming he was the owner of the house and apparently expecting him to acknowledge. _Oh, ’Jumper’s going to kill me._ “Yes, madam,” he confirmed with a smile just as fleeting as hers. “Cliffjumper…that’s me. Would you like to come in?”

“Certainly,” she assured him, brushing past and examining the front room with a critical optic. Windcharger felt his internals clench as he let the door close and shuffled in her wake.

“I—I have to say I wasn’t expecting you…Our friend who reported the case made it sound like we would need to take care of him for another quintun.”

“That’s precisely why I’m here, Sir Cliffjumper,” Interim stated, pushing in some of the chairs around the nearby table. “I want to be certain the sparkling will be safe for the remainder of the quintun. One of your pace-mates dropped a stylus on the floor, by the way; if he found a way to eat it, it could damage his vocalizer and internals.”

Windcharger winced, picking up the offending object she had indicated as she swept from the lounge into the hallway like she had already memorized the schematics of their home. She pointed out that the wash-racks should be better secured for Beeper’s safety when they washed him and then studied Brawn and Huffer’s room without much incident, but Gears’ room made her pause.

“Where does he recharge?” she questioned.

“In here, actually,” Windcharger admitted, bracing himself.

“These data pads,” Interim pointed out, gesturing to the stack of letters Gears kept on the floor, “could be dangerous if you left the sparkling in here alone with them. There are several of them that he could break and the glass from the screens would very well be a hazard. I suggest you get rid of these—”

“No,” Windcharger cut her off more sharply than he might have intended, earning a raised eyebrow. “My pace-mate’s not going to give those up! He lost his creators and those letters are all he has left of them, so they’re not going anywhere!”

“I simply meant you need to get a storage unit or put them somewhere the sparkling can’t get to them,” Interim replied dryly but somehow reassuringly. “There’s no need to overreact, though it’s a credit to you as a pace-leader.”

Windcharger very nearly choked. She thought he was Cliffjumper—and that Cliffjumper was the _pace-leader?_ If he considered, it would probably seem that way from her perspective: the house was in Cliffjumper’s name and Rusty had reported two pace-mates, Cliffjumper and Huffer, which implied they were the pace-leader and One. He didn’t dare imply otherwise.

 _Great, now Brawn’s going to kill me too._ “Thanks,” he managed, embarrassed for reasons entirely different from what she might believe.

“Tell me, Sir Cliffjumper, where _is_ the sparkling?” Interim inquired, glancing over her shoulder at him as she walked in a circle around the real Cliffjumper’s room, tidying up several chrome-cake wraps and making a note on that infernal data pad.

“Oh, he’s in the kitchen. I’ll get him,” Windcharger offered, rushing off and seizing Beeper from the floor, giving him a hasty onceover to be sure he looked well. As he did so, he saw the front door opening in his peripheral vision and spun around in alarm, only to slump in relief.

“Hey,” Huffer greeted, hugging his arms against his chest as he entered. “I…ah, something happened and I needed a half-orn, so Hightop let me come home early. How’s—?”

“Hey, Huffer!” Windcharger called cheerfully, cutting him off as he came to meet him and hissed in his audial, “I’m Cliffjumper and you’re my One if she asks, got it?!” Huffer’s EM field rippled with astonishment and confusion, only to flatten defensively as the support agent emerged from the hallway.

“Hello, sir,” she hailed, giving him a keen stare. “You must be one of his pace-mates.”

“Huffer, his One,” he finished for her in a rush, realization and anxiety igniting his optics as he glanced between her and Windcharger. “N-Nice to meet you, Madam—?” His vocals went up a note at the end, uncertain.

“Interim. A pleasure. I’ve just been inspecting your home and I believe there are a few minor issues that should be discussed.” This casual command preceded a dizzying dissertation of how to tidy up their living areas so the sparkling wouldn’t be anything less than completely safe at all times, even when he was supposed to be recharging, and the dangers of leaving him with certain items she had seen lying around.

Nearly a joor later, Interim finally seemed to have finished her assessment and instructions, ranging anywhere from barricading the perilous glass staircase to Beeper’s socialization needs and everything in-between. Frankly, Windcharger was reeling from the great data-dump and had come to the decision that learning to catch bots out of midair and do flips from high railings had never been so overwhelming. Huffer, who had taken Beeper from him, wasn’t doing much better, clinging to the little frame as though it would keep him upright under the onslaught of information and rebukes.

Unaware or, more likely, uncaring of their near-delirious state, Interim rose with an aura of satisfaction. “If you follow my instructions, you’re going to do just fine,” she told them, moving toward the door. “If I have the time, I’ll check in on you again.”

“We’ll be fine,” Huffer sighed.

“I’m sure you will—Oh, I nearly forgot! Cliffjumper.”

Windcharger straightened hastily; in the middle of his prayer that she _wouldn’t_ check in again, he’d nearly forgotten that he needed to respond to that name. “Yes, what?”

“You shouldn’t leave him unattended in the kitchen the way you did when you came to answer the door; he could get up to all sorts of mischief,” Interim advised before lifting a hand goodbye and strolling out of sight.

Windcharger stared at the closed door, feeling utterly exhausted and conquered. After a klik or two, he turned to Huffer, who was now keening in wordless agony and rocking Beeper back and forth. “I thought coming home early was a good idea,” he was lamenting. “I was so, so wrong!”

“We _will_ be fine,” Windcharger echoed his previous words, trying to sound brave. “It’s either that or Interim comes back to kill us all. As much as I hate to admit it, right now I feel like she could.”


	9. Chapter 9

These past few orns, Cliffjumper had been so caught up in his musings about what might happen with Bee that his strange customers hadn’t mattered very much to him. This time, however, he was sure they were out to drive him completely round the track. The queue was several yards long, full of obnoxious adults and demanding sparklings.

 _I sure hope Bee isn’t going to turn out this way when he finds a home,_ Cliff thought to himself, doing his best to resist the urge to snarl at the sparkling who had just thrown himself onto the ground and howled until his weary carrier hauled him back upright and dragged him off kicking and screaming.

The customer immediately behind them pushed his items onto the counter without a word, giving Cliffjumper a sweet minute or two of silence before he asked without warning, “What’s your name?”

Optics flicking up from the wheel-nuts, Cliffjumper pinned the mech under a wary stare. “Cliff,” he answered shortly. “Why do you want to know?”

“Is it just Cliff or is it short for something?” the mech persisted instead of acknowledging the question.

Cliffjumper was sure that if one of his pace-mates could see him now, they would think he was being stupidly paranoid, but he didn’t particularly care; he just wanted the transaction to be over. “Just Cliff,” he spat.

“So your creators didn’t love you enough to give you a full name?” the mech demanded, incredulous. “I bet they didn’t really want you.”

Perhaps it was the insult to his creators or perhaps it was the knowledge that the same thing could be said for Bee, but Cliffjumper was not and would never be in the mood for this. “You want my full first name?” Rattling off the long Culumexian syllables of his spark-sanctus, he concluded angrily, “ _That_ is my full first name but I go by Cliff because it’s easier for _some_ bots to pronounce!” Finishing the packages, he shoved them across the counter. “So have a great evening!”

“I hope your evening only gets worse from here,” the customer snapped back. “I hope you quit! I don’t want to see you here again!”

“The feeling’s mutual,” Cliffjumper growled back. Once the mech left and a femme replaced him, the grocer wrestled his expression to a more subdued frown. “Good evening.”

“That was brave of you,” she told him in awe. “Couldn’t you lose your job for that?”

“Possibly,” Cliff admitted. After a klik or two of silence, he glanced down and found that she didn’t have any items to give him. Rebooting his vocalizer uncomfortably, he ventured, “Anything I can help you with?”

Smiling widely, she leaned closer and replied, “Actually, I was looking for a brave and handsome mech…”

Cliffjumper blinked, took a small step back and tried to keep his vocals neutral as he stressed, “Anything _grocery-related_ that I can help you with?”

The femme pouted, admitting, “Well, no. That didn’t work, huh? Oh, well. At least that wasn’t being recorded or anything; that would be really embarrassing.” Wordlessly Cliffjumper pointed to the camera fastened to the stall adjacent and her optics widened in pure horror. “That actually _works?!_ Now it’s on a holovid?!” Without waiting for an answer, she rushed off.

Groaning, Cliffjumper laid his chamfron on the counter. “I just want to go home. Is that too much to ask right now?”

“I don’t know, is it?” Brawn broke into his thoughts, clearly amused. Cliffjumper sprang upright, lighting up upon seeing his pace-mate across the counter from him.

“I think you’re a lifesaver!” he declared, springing into action to close his stall for the orn and redirect the customers to one of his coworkers. Once he was finished, he glanced around and found Gears to Brawn’s left, but his right side was conspicuously open. “Where’s Huffer?”

It should have been startling to Cliffjumper how two words could make Brawn darken as much as he did, but once Brawn started explaining who had arrived at their worksite, it wasn’t surprising in the least.

“So you had just as bad an orn as I had,” Cliffjumper growled when their leader was finished. “Huffer’s sure to be trashed, so let’s hurry up and get home. I don’t think Windcharger’s equipped to handle that.” In fact, there were several things Cliffjumper wasn’t sure Windcharger was equipped to handle, one being a full orn alone with little Bee, so that encouraged him to quicken his steps even more.

What he found when they reached home wasn’t exactly what they’d expected. Huffer was stalking back and forth across the lounge, gesticulating wildly as Windcharger typed furiously on a data pad. Huffer stopped mid-sentence, recoiling, only to slump in relief when he recognized them.

“Thank Primus it’s you three! I thought for sure it was going to be another agent who would lose it because Beeper’s recharging in the other room! Before you ask, someone from sparkling support showed up at the house, poking through all of our things, telling us where we need to put them from now on! And by the way, Brawn, I’m not your One anymore; I’m Cliffjumper’s!”

“What?!” Brawn and Cliffjumper burst out in unison.

“No, he’s mine,” Windcharger cut in. “I mean—well, the sparkling agency _thinks_ he’s mine cos they…” Peeking nervously at Cliff, the performer finished, “…they, ah, think I’m Cliffjumper.” Hoping to fill the gap left by their speechlessness, he rushed on, “When they came, Huffer hadn’t gotten here yet, so I was alone and Interim, the agent, she assumed I was Cliffjumper. I didn’t know what else to do, so I—I played along.”

“You little liar,” Cliffjumper ground out, mouth burning with the words.

“I didn’t have a choice!” Windcharger protested. “If I’d told them who I was, they would’ve taken Beeper away! And when she implied that Cliffjumper was supposed to be the pace-leader…Maybe I was impulsive and I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? You _stole_ my name!” Cliffjumper hollered. “If that wasn’t bad enough, you’re gonna be playin’ around with our ranks now? Slag it, Windcharger, that’s Huffer’s title— _Brawn’s_ title!”

“And now if this Interim comes back, we have to demean ourselves for your ruse,” Brawn spat. “I know you meant well, Charger, but this is the last thing we need! If you get found out, who knows what’ll happen?! I’m sick of our past catching up with us! We don’t need these new problems on top of one of us always being here, minding the sparkling!”

“Charger’s the one who stole him,” Cliffjumper pointed out accusingly.

“ _Rescued_ him,” Windcharger countered.

“Well, you’re no rescue bot!”

“Watch it!” Gears commanded in a tone that usually preceded one of his rants. Just as he was gearing up for it, the comm. unit trilled and he settled for glaring venomously at the combatants before putting it on audio and visual with a sigh. “What?”

“Hello, all!” Polevault greeted with a chipper wave. “I don’t know if you’re busy tonight with the little mech, but I wanted to invite you to our house—” She giggled, repeating, “ _Our_ house…” under her vents before continuing, “We’re celebrating our upcoming bonding ceremony. You can properly meet Rusty’s pace-mates for the first time and since no one here is nosy and Mesh wants a follow-up examination, you can bring the mechling. I hear you’re calling him Beeper!”

Cliffjumper very nearly corrected her with “Bee” and told her he was in no mood for a celebration, but resisted in order to glance over at Brawn, their _proper_ pace-leader, for an answer. The larger mech seemed resigned for a nanoklik but then bolstered himself.

“It might do Beeper some good to get out of the house,” he agreed at last. “We’re on our way.”

Despite their friendship with Rusty and Polevault, Brawn’s pace had never quite managed the journey to Rusty’s house, usually preferring to meet with them at a restaurant or at Polevault’s suite, which was a shorter trek from their home in Epistemus. This was why they were all taken aback by Rusty’s vast home, its three stories plated in varying shades of bronze and silver, all polished to a gleam.

“Gears?” Cliffjumper nudged his pace-mate, reminding him cautiously, “You never answered my question when Rusty and Mesh came over…How many pace-mates does Rusty have?”

Gears shrugged impulsively and Brawn interjected, “However many he needs to have a house like that. At least Polevault will be well cared for.”

“She better be,” Gears muttered, earning knowing looks. When he noticed, he added sharply, “Well, if she has to _climb_ this every orn, she’d better be! I just know this is going to lock up my struts!” So saying, he held more tightly onto Beeper and began following the long, winding runway to the door.

“Hey! It’s good to see you!” Rusty hailed once they knocked, wincing just a little as something whistled behind him. “Oh, here they come…”

Almost before he’d finished, a crowd of turbopuppies scrambled past him to leap at the visitors, scatting excitedly. Gears promptly recoiled as Huffer gingerly tried to step over the horde. Brawn caught hold of the two turbopuppies clambering up his legs, holding one under each arm as he followed his One, grumbling lightly as the mechanimals further tried to scale his shoulders.

“Sorry about that,” Rusty managed as he nudged one of the other small frames back inside with his foot. “Let me see, we have three, four, five—Just a nanoklik. **Scillniat** , come collect the horde before it mauls our guests!”

“Sure thing, Rusty!” The call came from a young mech who waved happily as he came into view. “Hello, how are you?”

“My pace-mate, Turbo,” Rusty introduced him.

“Turbo?” Cliffjumper scoffed. “These are turbopuppies owned by a mech named Turbo?”

“No, no, that’s not my real name; it’s just what I’m called _because_ of my little horde,” Turbo assured them warmly as he knelt and snapped his fingers for the mechanimals’ attention. “We all have nicknames like that. By the way, don’t listen to Rusty. I’m a mechanimal handler and I’ve pronounced each and every one of these _completely_ tame.”

“Until you find another one and bring it home,” Rusty pointed out.

“I have three more coming to me!” Turbo protested as he dragged his turbopuppies into his arms and nuzzled their faces, adding for their guests’ benefit, “One for each pace-mate is my limit!”

“You have a pace of _eight?_ ” Huffer gasped. “Rusty, how do you do it? I’m One for five and I can barely cope!”

“I multitask,” Rusty claimed with a sheepish smile. “Here, let me show you around.”

“So your name isn’t really Rusty?” Cliffjumper asked as they moved further into the house, trying to keep any and all suspicion out of his tone. Apparently he didn’t quite manage it; Gears promptly elbowed him as they walked side by side. Cliffjumper would have returned the favor, but Brawn sent them both a look that warned of twisted arms if it continued.

“It’s what I answer to, Cliffjumper,” Rusty replied, oblivious to the silent threats passing behind him. “Like Turbo said, we all call each other by monikers.” Raising his voice, he demanded, “Taj, how’s the fuel coming along?!”

Cliffjumper was rarely, if ever, unnerved by size, but he couldn’t help but falter slightly as a blue-and-red mech some good inches taller than Brawn rounded the corner with several energon cubes in his arms. Rolling a rust-stick to the side of his mouth, he huffed, “It’ll be ready when it’s ready, Rusty. Don’t rush me.”

“That’s our pace-leader,” Rusty informed his friends as the tall mech walked on. “He’s called Montage and he’s a newscaster, originally from Nexus. I’m the One, as you know. That—” He pointed out a purple-and-silver mech who was bent over a worktable, his back toward them. “—is our **sequein** , Spar, an augment-smith who’s originally from Logos.”

Cliffjumper rolled his optics as Windcharger pushed past to walk at Rusty’s side, hissing in awe, “A _real_ augmentation engineer from Logos?! Is it true that they have multiple augmentations? Is he attuned, like I am? What’s he working on right now?”

“Yes, he’s a real one—yes, he has an augment-array—he has magnetism but rarely uses it—and the augmentation he’s refining right now is classified,” Rusty patiently addressed each question in turn. “I’m sure he’d appreciate you asking, though.”

“Don’t be cryptic, Rusty,” a well-built mech dressed in dark blue and gold interrupted, sliding down from where he’d perched on the railing of the stairs. “They’ll get enough of that from Spar anyway. He’s fixing a glitch in one of my upgrades.”

“Stunner, our **trilitare** , who hails from Micronus,” Rusty announced. At their blank looks, Stunner gently flared some of the ridged plating on his forearms with a telltale crackle of electricity. Cliffjumper automatically leveled a hand in response, fingertips hissing with the preemptive frost of his glass gas, and Stunner gave him a strange look.

“I’m on the Nexus Sector police force,” he deadpanned.

“Oh. Of course you are,” Cliffjumper mumbled, dropping his stance and trying not to seem too embarrassed as he rolled his shoulders and prompted Rusty hastily, “Anyone else?”

“Well, you’ve already met Mesh, our **quanidre** , and—” A terrible screech cut off his next words and all present clamped their hands over their audials until it choked off. “That would be Feedback,” Rusty finished weakly.

“Just what I thought!” a red-and-copper mech proclaimed from where he was standing on the dining room table to reach the top rack of a sound system set up behind it. “This datatrax is begging to be burned!” Spinning around, he tipped a salute at the approaching mechs. “Feedback, popular Onyx traxcaster for any special occasion you could name, **quiendus** to the intended, who has the slaggin’ _Pits_ for his datatrax collection!”

“Why are you going through my trax?” Rusty demanded. “I told you that you could choose what you’re playing tonight!”

“I _am_ choosing and I’ve ruled out these!” Feedback retorted indignantly, holding out the trax with disdain and then rearing back. “Here, catch!”

As soon as they were airborne, a green-and-fuchsia mech, splattered with other mismatched colors, snatched the datatrax and planted them safety on Spar’s worktable before sending Rusty an apologetic glance and returning to his own, slinging a tarp over whatever his project was.

“The mech who just saved my golden records is our **syceiren** , Con-Struct,” Rusty ex-vented gratefully. “He’s an art teacher. And at the door you met Turbo, our **scillniat** , who came with him from Solomus.”

“You’re all crazy,” Cliffjumper informed him. He knew how that could sound immediately after he said it, but he didn’t regret it; he had heard about paces this size but had never seen one. Now that he had, he was sure they all had to be glitched.

“Of course we are,” Rusty agreed guiltlessly, much to Cliff’s surprise. “One large, crazy, loyal and loving pace.” As Polevault bounded out of the kitchen with the pace-leader, Montage, Rusty beamed, took her hands and pulled her in close, finishing, “With room for one more.”

“Time for that later, **unuceim** ,” Montage pointed out, nudging some energon cubes at him. “I need help labeling these.”

“Of course you do,” Polevault sighed good-naturedly, earning a grin past two new rust-sticks the pace-leader had appropriated. As Rusty took the energon cubes and hurried off, Polevault pivoted, spreading her arms wide. “So, Brawn and company, welcome to our home!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Taj's crazy huge pace in their crazy huge house just a little too much <3 *snuggles them all*  
> However, since I went nuts introducing Rusty's seven pace-mates, here's a small guide:
> 
> P.L.: Montage, newscaster from Nexus; Unuceim/One: Rusty, financial lawyer from Prima; Sequein: Spar, augment-smith from Logos; Trilitare: Stunner, cop from Micronus; Quanidre: Mesh, medic from Epistemus; Quiendus: Feedback, traxcaster from Onyx; Syceiren: Con-Struct, art teacher from Solomus; Scillniat: Turbo, mechanimal handler from Solomus
> 
> In Culumex, eight in the pace is the limit; any more and someone's going to end up neglected.


	10. Chapter 10

The atmosphere in Rusty’s house was a joyful one and Brawn’s entire pace was grateful for it. While Brawn had said it may do some good for Beeper to get out of the house, he had known from the start that the real value would be for his mates. The joint kitchen and lounge were large enough to make an echo out of their boisterous chatter but small enough to feel warm and friendly, much like the tenants themselves. Rusty’s pace was a grand one but clearly and completely welcoming.

As Brawn overlooked the room, holding a few turbopuppies in his lap for Turbo and keeping a pace-leader’s watchful optic on the happenings, he could see Montage on one of the seats near the kitchen counter, doing the same. Occasionally the two of them shared glances—small, wordless updates on however they were interpreting what they saw.

Brawn also did him the favor of glancing over at Rusty. He and Polevault were taking turns holding and entertaining Beeper, who was surprised but clearly happy with all of the attention.

 _It’s probably more than he got before we found him,_ Brawn realized, frowning lightly and then shaking his helm. _Don’t get yourself down, Brawn, not here._ Thus he turned his mind to the most reliable distraction: his pace. Each had gravitated to one of Montage’s mates as predictably as Brawn could have pictured it.

After the introductions, Gears had made a beeline toward Mesh, holding out Beeper for him to examine. Once everything had checked out with the sparkling, Polevault had swooped in and whisked him away, leaving the **sequein** and the **quanidre** to themselves.

Somehow they had gotten to the topic of the most recent tests on medical upgrades. Gears, being a materials manager _and_ a hypochondriac, was quite interested to hear about them and probably make note of whatever would soon be available to buy. Since he’d last glanced over, Brawn realized with wry amusement, it had devolved from that into a thorough systems check. Gears was more than happy to comply with whatever tests Mesh gave him, pointing out the various areas where he thought he was locked up for the medic to fix.

Windcharger had managed to sneak right next to Spar, taking the augment-smith’s energon cube to him as an excuse for his presence, and the two of them had sat in silence for a solid ten minutes. Brawn could tell how hard Windcharger was trying to stay still and not bother the solemn and reserved mech and apparently Spar had noticed it too; he’d taken a sip of his energon cube and asked, “You’re attuned, then?” Windcharger had hardly nodded before Spar gave him a sidelong look and added, almost grimly, “How well do you control it?”

Eagerly Windcharger had gone on to explain about his past as a performer and the building of his magnetic instrument. Spar listened attentively, occasionally nodding, and then prodded further, “Ever considered entering Logos for fine-tuning?”

Windcharger had stared at him for a solid ten kliks before exclaiming about how incredible that kind of training would probably be if he could ever afford travel time. Even so, Windcharger was fully aware of what Logos training did, just as Brawn was: a mech either came out reframed as a Logos soldier or that mech didn’t come out at all. It was much like Alchemist in that way, but Brawn wasn’t troubled. There were _many_ ideas Windcharger thought would be exciting, but because of his **trilitare’s** impulsiveness, he only achieved about thirty percent of those ideas.

Huffer had joined Montage at the kitchen counter, sitting two seats down from him so he wouldn’t have to look up so far. Brawn could hear bits and pieces of what they were discussing and eventually discerned that Huffer was asking about the news. Brawn had noticed it was a habit of his to seek out catastrophes in the news, not only so he could complain about the state of the world but so he could feel he had foreknowledge, just in case any of those catastrophes came too close to home. Brawn didn’t like that habit, but Huffer was irrepressible at times. Montage was giving him reports on activity in the **verriesen** cities closest to Culumex.

“The Iaconian airway pod drivers,” the larger mech explained, opening a new package of rust-sticks that Rusty affectionately tossed at him as he passed. “They’re all on strike at the moment as some kind of protest to the higher-castes. They don’t like that the miners are being forced to sit at the back to accommodate the Towersmechs.”

“ **Verriesen** enforce the _strangest_ rules!” Huffer exclaimed, throwing up his hands. “I can never tell what their priorities are from one nanoklik to the next!”

Cliffjumper and Feedback, meanwhile, were in a debate. Brawn had expected no less of them; when he’d first met Rusty, his friend had told him that his **quiendus** was a spitfire and it had proved entirely true. He and Cliff were both ready and willing to be vocal about their opinions on anything and everything. Currently the topic was the value of the Onyx lifestyle versus the Epistemus lifestyle. Being a mech originally from Onyx, Brawn was privately rooting for Feedback.

“I’m telling you, we made our own music!” Feedback declared, smirking proudly. “It’s how I got into the traxcasting business! I started out with a datatrax player the size of my hand—it was all I could find—and from entertaining my friends back then, I’ve made it to the big leagues!”

“Well, it wouldn’t be that hard to,” Cliffjumper scoffed. “If what you’re sayin’ is true, Onyx mechs can’t be picky!”

Feedback blinked at the inference, startled into a frown. “What I’m saying is that I _started_ in Onyx but it’s not like I stayed there,” he pointed out, “obviously.”

“And I’m sayin’ I don’t blame you!” Cliffjumper retorted. “Clearly you didn’t have many options in Onyx!”

“Ohh,” Feedback drawled, vocals edged despite their nonchalance, “like _you_ had in Epistemus, Cliffjumper? Tech doesn’t make a mech!”

Cliff’s expression changed subtly and Brawn felt a familiar warning prickle down his backstrut, setting the turbopuppies on the floor and leaning forward slightly to pay more attention. In his peripheral vision, he perceived Stunner, the resident law enforcement, come to full height.

“I never said it did,” Cliffjumper responded at last, his words both blunt and sharp at once. “And _base_ materials don’t make a pace, do they?”

The other conversations had stumbled to a halt, mates from both paces taking notice of what was likely a familiar scene for all witnesses, but before Feedback could bark an answer and the debate could spiral down into a fight, Polevault hastily intervened.

“Hey, Feedback! Con-Struct was just going to tell us how his art class went. With all of the party-planning, he didn’t get to share earlier.”

The art teacher almost looked like he would protest, but it seemed that when Rusty’s intended implied something, it was respected. Feedback quieted, shooting a fleeting glare at Cliffjumper before fixing narrowed optics on Con-Struct.

“Well,” Con-Struct began reluctantly, “it was frustrating, first and foremost. There’s this one mechling who simply _refuses_ to cooperate. He was talking during attendance, throwing paint containers, refusing to sit down…I gave him several chances. When he finally threw a piece of sheet metal at his sculpting partner, I told him he’d used up his warnings and that he needed to fill out a data pad to give to the overseer of the Academy. He refused, so I told him to come to my desk and fill it out.” He paused, ex-vented tersely and glanced down, rubbing furiously at paint stains on his hands.

“What happened?” Rusty prodded gently, apparently recognizing the motion and bumping their hands together to stop it.

“It was so aggravating, Rusty, tricurse it,” Con-Struct spat. “He just leaned back in his chair, gave me this infuriating, _sympathetic_ smile and said, ‘You’ll bring it to me’—”

“Aw, _Pits_ , no!” Feedback hollered above the astonished cries of the others. “If that little scraplet likes things being thrown so much, I’d throw that data pad at his smirking little face!”

“Sounds like he needs an attitude adjustment,” Brawn remarked, glancing at Cliff, who tried to smooth out the impressed nod he’d given to Feedback with a tilt of the helm and his own smirk.

“Sure thing, Brawn; let me at ’em!”

“I’ll sic the turbopuppies on him!” Turbo put in, earning a raised eyebrow from Rusty. “It doesn’t matter that they’re tame,” he added in answer to the unasked question. “If I give them orders, they’ll follow them and bite the scraplet’s sorry skidplate!”

“There’s no need for the fantasies,” Con-Struct assured them. “I’m going to request he be transferred out of my class, since he clearly isn’t going to work with me.”

“But if he gives you any more trouble in the meantime…” Feedback pressed.

“Clearly I know who to call for throwing data pads,” Con-Struct allowed with a grateful smile.

“Now, now,” Polevault tsked, gently laying her hands over Beeper’s audials. “That’s no way to talk when there’s a mechling in the room!”

“Speaking of which,” Huffer added, “I think he needs recharge.” Sure enough, Beeper was already vibrating, optics scrunching up wearily as he squirmed to escape Polevault’s hands.

The trek home frankly seemed twice as long as the journey to Rusty’s house, but Brawn was pleased to note that Gears and Huffer had only complained about it a few times. For the first time in a while, they were all content—even, Brawn dared to suspect, _happy_. The night had been almost perfect and if not that, definitely fun.

Once they reached the house, however, Gears settled into his customary frown, though it was wearier than usual as he readjusted Beeper, who hid his face in his shoulder.

“Can he recharge with someone else tonight?” Gears pleaded, throwing a mournful note into his voice. “I need my rest and he makes these chirping noises that bring me out of it…”

“We can put him in the empty room,” Cliffjumper suggested, taking the drowsy sparkling from Gears and moving toward the berthroom none of them used.

“No!” Brawn burst out before he could stop himself, causing Cliff to jerk around and stare at him. Brawn straightened, a little self-conscious, and tried to calm his thoughts. Their **quiendus** could arrive at any time and he would need his room, but it wouldn’t be very long that Beeper would stay in there…just a short while for recharge and then it would be open again for their future pace-mate, the one Brawn just _knew_ would come soon.

“You have some kind of problem, Brawn?” Cliffjumper prompted impatiently.

“No,” Brawn repeated curtly, rebooting his vocalizer. “That’s fine; put him in there.” Cliffjumper nodded approval and slipped into the room as everyone else went about preparing for recharge. As he did, Brawn couldn’t help but feel a sharp pang of guilt.

 _It’s only for a little while. It’s not forever…I’m still paying attention; I’m going to see my **quiendus** when he comes. This isn’t some big betrayal!_ Yet it felt like it. It kept him online long after he retired, minutes droning on and on until he finally sat up, careful to keep his footsteps soft so Huffer wouldn’t come around.

Brawn kept the light in the **quiendus’** room dim, only bright enough for him to see the tiny, temporary occupant. Beeper was curled tightly in a pile of thermal tarps, bits and pieces of gold plating shimmering faintly. Swallowing nervously, Brawn crept close and crouched, keeping his vents tight and quiet. He could only just see the little face, serene and sweet…unafraid.

First one finger touched Beeper’s chamfron. Then it was two and three and Brawn muttered a quiet prayer as he leaned forward and scooped the fragile frame out of his swaddling. As soon as he realized Beeper hadn’t woken, the pace-leader ex-vented slowly in relief and leaned against the nearest wall, spark racing with amazement, gratitude, and even a strange impression of sorrow.

Even if he’d been able to speak without waking the little one he was holding, he wouldn’t have been able to find any words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All Brawn ever wanted to do was hold him without either of them being scared <3 A recharging sparkling is a calm sparkling.


	11. Chapter 11

Huffer wasn’t too surprised when he dragged himself out of his berth at the proper time and found his pace-mates still entirely dead to the world. It wasn’t often that they went to parties as large as the one they had last night; in fact, Huffer couldn’t remember the last time. Either way, he was forced to weigh the cons of being late against the cons of his pace’s crankiness, deciding he would let them recharge for a few more minutes. Meanwhile he would fill the wash-racks and give the sparkling an oil bath, since he hadn’t received one since the first orn he’d arrived.

That proved to be easier said than done, Huffer realized, cursing as the oil sloshed over the side of the racks and then scrubbing Beeper’s audials a bit harder to make up for the language he’d heard. The mechling buzzed crossly, small hands clenching and unclenching and slapping the surface of the oil.

“I’m doing you a favor,” Huffer told him, equally annoyed. “And this is how you repay my efforts, of course. I figured you would! You would cooperate for Cliffjumper or Gears, wouldn’t you?!”

Beeper chirruped, almost in agreement, and irritably splashed his hands in the oil again, splattering some of it down Huffer’s chest. Huffer squeaked, shuttered his optics and vented deeply, biting back another curse, and Beeper blinked at what he’d done, the frustration in his optics clearing in favor of delight as he giggled and smeared the closest oily hand across Huffer’s cheek. The older mech sputtered in disbelief, earning more laughter and another swipe across the edge of his jaw.

“Beeper!” Huffer whined, craning his helm back as little handprints were planted across his shoulders and chest in the effort of reaching his face. “Stop, stop!” Beeper giddily ignored the plea, squealing happily and slopping puddles onto the floor and Huffer’s knees.

“Wow,” Brawn drawled from the doorway, his tone kept carefully nonchalant, but Huffer could still sense the amusement behind it. “Whose bath time is this, his or yours?”

“Not funny, Brawn,” Huffer hissed, twisting around to glower at him and finding the broad grin, just as he’d suspected. Beeper stilled, optics paling and widening at Brawn’s sudden appearance, and Huffer hurriedly lifted a hand in front of his optics. “Sorry about him,” he added on impulse.

To his surprise, Brawn simply shrugged, almost like the fear from the little one didn’t bother him as much as it had before. “I’ll get the others up and make breakfast while you clean up for work,” he told him, turning to leave.

“Ah, actually—” Huffer hurried to stop him, rising and narrowly catching himself as he slipped on the oil. Regaining his balance and ex-venting shakily, he finished, “Actually, I was hoping you and Gears would cover for me with Hightop. I want to take another orn off to, uh, look after Beeper.”

“Really?” Brawn squinted at him, puzzled. “You do realize he’s the one who just drenched you in oil, right? I would’ve thought you’d want to—”

“Well, I don’t,” Huffer interrupted. “If that femme agent, Interim, comes back, I don’t want to know what Windcharger might say. He might slip! He might act like the complete opposite of a pace-leader—the complete opposite of Cliffjumper—and if he does, I know I’ll end up being the one who cleans up after him, cos I’m the only other pace-mate she’s met!”

Brawn considered this for a few kliks and then nodded thoughtfully. “Alright, I can buy that.” With this strange response, he strode off and Huffer relaxed a few increments at a time, but not completely.

Interim’s sudden appearance wasn’t the only thing he feared and if Brawn’s words were any indication, his friend knew about it. Huffer was just glad he hadn’t bothered to call him out on how shaky he was after Remix’s second intrusion into his life. If Hightop had somehow been overruled and Remix and his crew were still there, Huffer wanted to be nowhere near them. He’d rather be mildly annoyed by Beeper than be given a panic attack by the sight of them.

Pursing his lips, he returned his attention to the mechling, who was examining the ridges on the wash-rack knobs but hadn’t started fiddling. He swallowed hard at the sight.

_“Is something wrong with these wash-racks?” he’d asked Remix and Wheelwell, frustrated. “Every time I try them, it’s cold water, not oil!” Neither of them reacted, so he added, “But I think I can fix it,” and reached for the rack paneling, startling when Wheelwell gripped his wrist and shoved his hand back at him. “Hey! What gives? Don’t you want me to fix it?”_

_“What makes you think you get oil to wash?” Wheelwell demanded scornfully. “It’s not like you work as hard as the rest of us, apprentice; we work hard for that oil and if you want some, you’ll have to either take up some more shifts or pay us to loan you some!”_

_“How…how is that fair?” Huffer asked incredulously._

_“It may not seem fair to you, but that’s how it is,” Remix assured him. “So pay up or tell me which of us you feel like treating with time off.” Huffer stared between them, speechless, and Remix laughed, swiping an open hand at his helm in a manner that didn’t quite manage to be playful. “D’you have an audial glitch or something? Want me to say it again?”_

_“N-No,” Huffer cut him off, dodging the hand and pressing a credit stick into it. “Fine, here you go. Can I have some of the oil for washing now?”_

_“Sure,” Remix shrugged, turning away and calling smugly over his shoulder, “But don’t forget, my friend, this is only a loan! You’ll still have to work it off.”_

“Hey,” Windcharger’s voice made him jump. “I hear you’re staying with Beeper and I! I’ve been thinking about what we could do with him; maybe he’d like the Innovations Hall!”

“Mmm,” Huffer hummed as he dried Beeper down with a thermal tarp, unconvinced. “He’s only a first-frame, Windcharger; he’s a little young for that.”

“But it’s not just about doing the activities,” Windcharger pointed out. “It’s about seeing the sights, the sounds, and the atmosphere, not to mention other sparklings! We’ll have to introduce him to that so he can acclimate.” He paused, features flickering as though he were resisting the urge to grimace. “Well, whoever ends up taking him will have to. But it could still be some fun, right?”

“He’ll probably get bored,” Huffer warned.

“Then we’ll figure out something else to do afterwards!” Windcharger assured him. “Besides, maybe it’ll get him to explore something of a hands-on approach to things.” At Huffer’s unasked question, he sighed lightly. “Haven’t you noticed how… _disinterested_ he is in building things? It took him a while to even understand that the little Garbage O’s contraptions were toys. That’s not right for a mechling his age.”

All at once the Innovations Hall was sounding like a much better idea. After suffering through Gears’ complaints that Huffer was getting off work too easily, Cliffjumper’s snide remarks that Windcharger’s flexible schedule shouldn’t even be called a schedule, and Brawn’s pointed looks that told them to get over it before he found a way to make them look like idiots, Huffer and Windcharger were free to take Beeper out.

“Here’s something you can carry him in,” Windcharger offered, holding up some tightly woven mesh. Huffer stared at it in mild horror and Windcharger thrust it further at him, insisting, “It was on that list of ideas Interim gave us, remember?”

“List?” Huffer echoed, shaking his helm violently. “No, that was the saga of sparkling-care since the Golden Age! You do remember that the Golden Age was in the past, so some of the ideas are bound to be outdated. I am not carrying him in a _mesh_ _bag_. Why don’t _you_ carry him?”

“It’s not a bag,” Windcharger protested. “It’s a sling, a pack, and unless you want to carry him over your shoulder all orn without a single word of complaint for your arms, you should take advantage of it! I made it myself; he won’t fall out or anything.”

“I’m more concerned about my own humiliation,” Huffer mumbled as he gingerly maneuvered Beeper’s feet into the bag and then hooked it over one shoulder. Windcharger stood back, nodding approvingly. Twittering curiously, Beeper peeked over the edge of the mesh at Huffer, who returned the look jadedly. _Don’t blame me; I don’t know what he’s thinking either_.

The Innovations Hall had an entire wing dedicated to entertaining the sparklings and generating some imaginative talent. Everything was brightly colored, as Windcharger had pointed out, and found some way to incorporate the building blocks sparklings would need. Huffer was busy fussing with Beeper’s sling-pack, but when he finally looked up, his step faltered.

“What?”

“Oh…I’d forgotten,” Huffer murmured as he stared at the back wall where several sparklings moved magnetic tubing, trying to find the right connection that would light up the twisting and turning network. “There’s something like that in Maximus, where I was sparked.”

“Getting a little nostalgic?” Windcharger teased.

“No, not at all. I could never solve it and I ran out of the place crying. I wouldn’t go back,” Huffer deadpanned bluntly. Windcharger blinked, unsure of what to say to that, but Huffer shrugged and moved toward the wall. “Let’s see what Beeper thinks.”

Beeper studied the mismatched tubing with what could be considered a critical optic, but he didn’t seem interested enough to touch. Acting on impulse, Huffer demonstrated for the little one and twisted the tube immediately in front of him, taking a few steps back in surprise when the wall trilled its congratulations in a form of Culumexian simplified for sparklings and the lights in the paneling burst on. The sparklings all spun around to stare at him, annoyed and disappointed, and he held up his hands in apology. Just as Windcharger started trying to stifle his laughter, an audial-piercing howl caught their attention.

“My power pod!” a mechling cried, hopping and tugging frantically on his carrier’s leg. “Carrier, I dropped my power pod!”

“It’s going to be just fine, sweetspark. I’ll start looking for it,” the carrier tried to soothe, patting his helm briefly before spinning in every direction.

“What’s going on?” Windcharger questioned, striding over before Huffer could stop him.

“He’s lost a little figurine of an airway pod,” the carrier explained apologetically, holding up several more, painted in bright colors. “It’s like these.”

“’Cept it’s my _favorite_ power pod!” the sparkling pleaded, rubbing at his optics. “It’s my lucky one!”

“Well, that won’t do!” Windcharger declared, crouching. “We’ll find it; don’t worry. I know a little something about airway pods; I lived in one for a long time with some of my…” He trailed off, revising the end of his sentence. “I lived in one for a long time, and do you know what augmentations are yet?” At the nod he received, he wiggled his fingers. “I’ve got magnetism! Your pod will drive itself right to me!”

As he watched, Huffer felt the sling vibrating against his hip. Mimicking the carrier’s previous actions and patting Beeper’s helm to quiet him, he moved toward the **trilitare** , who straightened and muttered, “You take the right, I’ll take the left?”

“Are we really doing this?” Huffer began, skeptical, but Windcharger held up a hand.

“Remember how _you_ ran out crying and wouldn’t go back? We can prevent that here,” he argued. “So help out.” That said, he pivoted and began kneeling down to examine the floor with the anxious mechling hovering behind him. Huffer turned away and was surprised to see some of the other sparklings following Windcharger’s example, running along the magnetic wall and checking in some of the tubes. It wasn’t likely the figurine was in there, but they were helping and Huffer wasn’t going to have anything less said of him when the little ones were troubling themselves.

Speaking of troubled little ones, Beeper continued to buzz for attention, patting Huffer’s plating wherever he could reach. The older mech circled several different tables and kept his optics on the floor, absentmindedly offering a finger and shushing his burden, but Beeper wasn’t in the mood to obey, warbling all the more insistently and waving his arms until he managed to get them over the edge of the sling. It wasn’t until he let out a shrill dial tone squeal that Huffer finally acknowledged him.

“Calm down!” he scolded. “What are you—?” Upon following Beeper’s small, pointing finger, Huffer felt his mouth open in astonishment. Quickly crossing the room, he wiggled the well-worn red airway pod from where it had been wedged and glanced between it and Beeper, who was now pointing expectantly in the direction they’d come from.

“My power pod!” the young owner exclaimed gleefully, bolting toward him and tackling Huffer’s leg in thanks before snatching the pod away to show his carrier.

“You scouted it out?” Windcharger called, approaching.

“Actually…” Huffer was still staring at Beeper, utterly bewildered. “ _He_ scouted it out—from across the room, no less!”

“He’s got clearer optics than we realized!” Windcharger praised, grinning widely. “Isn’t that right, Beeper? Yes, it is!” Beeper trilled contentedly and curled up in the bottom of the bag, sucking on one of Huffer’s fingers. Windcharger’s grin widened, only to fade when he checked his chronometer. “Oh, hey, would you mind if I put in a joor or two of work? I don’t want to lose my regulars for my show and you can see what I do!”

It wasn’t too much of a walk from the Innovations Hall to Windcharger’s usual corner on the walkway, but Huffer wasn’t too sure he liked what he saw: his pace-mate sitting on the street, polishing his vlin and waiting for someone to pay attention to his music. It wasn’t ideal for a performer of his skill.

“But at least it’s more than what he had before,” Huffer murmured, extracting his finger from Beeper’s mouth. “We’ll be his audience if we have to be.” So saying, he sank down and pulled Beeper out of the sling, sitting him down too with his back against the smooth, warm wall of the storefront immediately behind them.

If Huffer was honest, the crowd that amassed as Windcharger played was a relief and the credits that the sparklings in the group offered were endearing. “Charger really knows how to use that augmentation of his, doesn’t he, Beeper?” he commented. “I have to admit, I’m impressed. Just don’t tell him that or he won’t let me hear the end of it. Then he’ll tell Gears, who’ll give me an even harder time for it, and Cliff will just laugh even if he doesn’t know what’s going on. Eventually Brawn will end up telling them off and later, when we’re alone, he’ll tease me about it too, all because you tattled.” Despite the familiar scenario, he couldn’t help but smile as he glanced down at Beeper.

He glanced down at where Beeper was _supposed_ to be, where he wasn’t.

A panicked yelp forcing its way out of him, Huffer lunged to his feet. “Charger!” The music ended with an off-tune twang and Windcharger glanced over his shoulder incredulously. “He’s gone! Charger, he’s gone!” the engineer cried, bounding a few yards away before skidding in the opposite direction. “Beeper!”

Windcharger promptly abandoned his work, demanding frantically, “Well, where is he?!”

“Do you know the definition of _gone?!_ ‘Gone’ means I don’t know!” Spark pulsing hard, Huffer examined the mesh sling that he’d set down, nearly tearing it in his panic before tossing it down. “He—he was right next to me! He must’ve just walked off!”

“He _can’t walk!_ ” Windcharger snarled, spinning toward the alleyway and then stopping up short.

“What?” Huffer demanded, gripping his arm.

“This is where I found him,” Windcharger whispered. “D’you—d’you think whoever left him came back and—?”

“Oh, Primus!” Huffer moaned, pressing his face into his hands, only to lift it when someone called pleasantly out to him:

“Excuse me, is this one yours?”

The pace-mates turned as one and both yelped upon seeing the runaway nestled happily in the arms of a femme, who smiled brightly at them. The sparkling standing next to her followed suit with a wave.

“Beeper!” Huffer cried out at the same time Windcharger gasped, “Genre?!”

“Don’t worry, Winder, we found him!” the sparkling, presumably Genre, exclaimed proudly, giggling a little as the pair rushed toward them. “He was rolling around near one of the other shops!”

“ _Rolling?_ ” Huffer asked distractedly as he took Beeper from the femme and clutched him tightly, trying to calm his racing thoughts.

“Yes, sometimes when sparklings haven’t learned to crawl yet, they roll to get around instead,” Genre’s carrier explained with a chuckle. “At least until they can get up the strength to crawl. By the way, you should put some solid fuel into that mechling; he’s a bit malleable.”

“We’re working on it,” Windcharger sighed, wiping a hand down his face.

“Here, here! Can he try this?” Genre piped up eagerly, withdrawing a rust stick from subspace and holding it up for Beeper, though he couldn’t quite reach until his carrier picked him up. After a klik or two, Beeper compliantly took the rust stick and started gnawing on it. The sight seemed to calm Windcharger slightly, but it calmed Huffer even less.

 _Another orn taken off and I’m nearly given_ another _spark flux,_ he agonized, tucking Beeper’s helm under his chin. _I probably am better off at work!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with that they all head back to the house and take good long naps, cos Primus knows they need it after that scare!


	12. Chapter 12

It wasn’t often that Gears let his mind wander when he was at work; even before his system reset, he had always prided himself on keeping focused while he oversaw everything his coworkers did. Now, however, thanks to Cliffjumper, he was finding it hard to keep his thoughts on track.

“Let’s hope that femme agent doesn’t come around again, like Huffer was scared she would,” the grocer had grumbled on the walk to work. “If she does, I don’t think Windcharger’s gonna be able to keep up his little ruse!”

“Why? D’you think Charger may flirt with the femme while he’s masquerading as you?” Brawn teased, earning a shove that didn’t even knock him off balance. “Is it cos your _gentle allure_ is so hard to imitate?”

“Aw, frag off, Brawn!” Cliff had snapped back. “He’s not me and he’s not you and now he’s tryin’ to be both at once.”

At that Brawn had stopped smiling and shaken his helm. “You’re acting like he’s trying to replace us, ’Jumper. He’s not. Anyone who knows us, they know who’s who and what’s what.”

“That’s my point!” Cliffjumper insisted. “It’s the agency’s job to look at us hard, get to know us better than our friends do. Ha! Windcharger never would be able to convince Rusty’s pace-mates that he’s ‘our pace-leader, Cliffjumper!’ It’s just the same with this agency.”

Shrugging impatiently, Gears had cut in, “If that’s what you’re so hot and bothered about, try having some faith in Windcharger for once! He’s better than you seem to think if he pulled it off when she came and surprised him! You’re probably just steaming cos it was your name he took and not one of ours.”

“Charger may be a performer, Gears, but he’s no _actor_. Do you really think he can pull off being a pace-leader any better than he can pull off being Skydive’s creation? Sooner or later, if he keeps pushing the lie, he’s going to slip and then we’ll all be fragged, Beeper most of all!”

Gears wasn’t usually a worrier and if anyone had asked, he would have kept his worry close and made sure they knew nothing about it.

 _It’s not worry_ , he told himself, his frown deepening. _It’s hostility. That’s normal for me_. Yet somehow that made his thoughts all the clearer. He was surprisingly hostile toward the idea of Beeper being found out and taken. He had a feeling Cliff’s backtalk was simply his way of showing he had the same concerns.

If there were any pace-mate Beeper had bonded with more than Gears himself, it was Cliffjumper, thanks to their similar frame-types. It was obvious, at least to Gears, that Cliff had reciprocated by taking a big-brotherly attitude toward Beeper and Gears was essentially the sparkling’s main caretaker. Beeper felt safest with them and neither of them were too partial to the idea of letting him down.

Sometimes Gears almost got the urge to talk with Cliff about it, figure out something they could do if the secret came out, but then they’d inevitably get uncomfortable and defensive; it would probably end in a fight. They were doing a good job of keeping a tight weld on that door—for now, at least.

“Gears, get with it!” Brawn called, planting his hands on his hips. “You want those veneer beams melted down, right?!”

“That’s your job,” Gears shot back before doing what Brawn said and hauling the beams up for him, handing them off to the nearest demolitionist. Brushing off his hands, Gears scanned the worksite. The engineers were still working hard despite Huffer’s absence, as long as they had Brawn and his crew venting down their necks. It put some pressure on them that they definitely needed. “Looks like we’re on schedule,” he decided.

“That’s good to hear,” Hightop concurred. Gears glanced at him sharply and Hightop held up his hands, offering, “I didn’t mean to startle you. Anyway, it’s good to see you keeping an optic on things, like you always have…” He paused, lifting his eyebrows. “Like you will again, perhaps, as in future tense?”

“Don’t even try, Hightop,” Gears cut him off, blunt but not clipped. “Sure, I know I made a good right hand— _made_ , as in past tense. Old habits stick with me but you seem to think you haven’t made a good supervisor yourself.”

“Thank you.”

“That’s what _I’m_ saying,” Gears admitted. “None of us really thanked you for what you did with Remix, making sure nothing happened.”

“About that, Gears…it’s not that I mind Huffer taking another orn off, but how is he?” Hightop questioned, folding his arms. “Every time something happens with him here, he gets pretty rattled, but it seemed different this time—worse.”

“Yeh,” Gears huffed. “Let’s just say the punches they threw weren’t even the half of it. So thanks for keeping our One out of it, but I think Huffer was planning on taking off anyway; he had to take care of some things.”

“Ahh.” Hightop nodded pensively, a hint of a smile ghosting over his face. “What I did was no trouble if it lets Huffer take care of certain things. How _is_ the little one, by the way?”

Gears’ first thought was that Hightop must have overheard Brawn’s nickname for Huffer sometime on the worksite. His second thought took him back a step. “Um…wh-what?” he gasped out dumbly.

“C’mon, Gears, you think I don’t know the sounds of a sparkling when I hear them?” Hightop chuckled. “I have to admit, Windcharger’s magnetic vibrations were a good cover story. How’s the real culprit?”

“He’s fine,” Gears managed. “He’s well cared for, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“Oh, I was already sure of that,” Hightop assured him, hesitating for a nanoklik before lowering his voice. “Do you…know what caste the sparkling is?”

“Caste? The sparkling’s caste?” Brawn echoed, catching their attention. Gears bit back a curse. “What does that matter?” the demolitionist demanded.

“So you don’t know,” Hightop sighed.

“He’s a _sparkling_. What does it matter?” Brawn repeated testily. “So what if he’s not from the Nexus sector-caste?”

“Brawn—” Gears began, only to receive a gesture of pace-exclusive slang which encouraged him to shut his mouth and glare instead of object.

“None of us are originally from Nexus, Hightop,” Brawn continued defensively, clanging a fist against his housing. “I’m from Onyx! Huffer’s from Maximus, Gears is from Micronus…Do you _judge_ us for that?!”

“Of course not!” Hightop protested. “When have I ever given you reason to think that? I only want to be sure you won’t get in trouble if the sparkling is a higher caste than you are, someone finds out and you, as a lower caste, are deemed unfit to care for him. I was just telling Gears that I _know_ you’re fit for that, so if you ever need someone to speak on your behalf, call me. I’m ready and willing!”

Brawn blinked, his stance gradually easing, and then he nodded briefly. “Alright,” he allowed after a klik or two, studying their manager warily. “Thanks for the offer.”

“Any time,” Hightop stressed before glancing at Gears and taking his leave.

“Pits, Brawn, you overreact to everything!” Gears complained once Hightop was out of audial range. Brawn didn’t reply, not even to argue, and Gears read his processors. “Wait a klik. Now you’re wondering if Beeper is higher up in the sector caste?”

“You weren’t there to see Cliffjumper’s face when he first learned Windcharger was from Solus,” Brawn remarked. “It matters.”

“Well, if we ever want to know, we’ll have to find one of his creators and ask them,” Gears pointed out snidely. “And I don’t think they’ll much be in the mood to talk about the mechling they left in the _garbage_.”

“I hear you,” Brawn sighed. “See you for the fuel break.” With that he went in the opposite direction of Hightop and Gears rolled his optics, but he’d hardly cycled another ventilation before he spotted Polevault rushing toward him.

“Gears! I wanted to talk to you,” she announced unnecessarily. Before Gears could make a remark that everyone seemed to want that right now, she went on, beaming, “Rusty and I have chosen a date for our bonding ceremony.”

 _Oh…_ Guilt swept through Gears’ internals. Somehow the special occasion had fled his mind. “Good to hear,” he said at last. “When?”

Sheepishly his old friend laughed, knitting her fingers behind her back. “This quintun’s end.”

“That’s—what, three orns away?! You’re _sure_ you’re not rushing things?” Gears demanded.

“I’m sure, Gears, I’m sure!” she soothed. “But because we want to do it so soon, I had to ask you a question I hadn’t planned to yet. It wasn’t a hard decision for me to make—I’ve been thinking about it ever since I gave Rusty a ‘yes’—because, well, it’s you.” She faltered and Gears made a hurried “go on” gesture. “Gears, my creators joined the Allspark a long time ago, and Catapult…I wish he could be there.”

“I do too,” Gears assured her, pursing his lips. “He would’ve had the time of his life.”

“But since he can’t be there and I don’t have any other kin, I have an Amica Endura to turn to,” Polevault forged on. “That would be you. I was hoping you’d do me the honor of being my **pacenlekei**.”

Gears felt like his spark plummeted out of its chamber in his disbelief. Amica Endura? He’d known they were close, but when had he become that to her? “You want _me_ to put you in the hands of your bondmate,” he stated, rather than asked.

“Yes…unless for some reason you don’t plan to be there.”

“No!” he burst out, shaking his helm violently. “Of course I’ll be there! I wouldn’t miss that! I just…don’t understand why you wouldn’t trust the job of a **pacenlekei** to one of Rusty’s pace-mates. They’re going to be your family now.”

“That doesn’t make you any less my family, does it?” Polevault asked, arching a brow. “And it would be improper if the pace wasn’t standing with their One! It’s either you or I walk to him alone.”

“No,” Gears snapped again. “You deserve whatever you want. I’ll do it; there’s no one else I’d trust to do it right.”

Beaming, Polevault clasped his shoulders tightly. “I knew you would! Well…I hoped you would.”

“Sure, Amica,” Gears murmured, lightly knocking his chamfron against hers. “It’s what I do.” As soon as he got home, he would need to learn the phrases to say; he wanted everything to be perfect for her. For the first time he could remember in a long time, he genuinely _wanted_ someone to be happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pacenlekei: the one chosen for the honor of giving away one of the sparkmates
> 
> Gears' relationships with Hightop and Polevault are so entertaining for me to write. He has such a great dynamic with both of them! <3 They're pretty much the only bots he really _cares_ for outside of his pace.


	13. Chapter 13

“May your bonds of your house be greatly enriched by the presence of the new—my—ugh, _your_ beloved…who is…Frag.”

Windcharger tried not to let his EM field reflect his amusement as he watched Gears fumble over the phrase he needed to memorize for the ceremony. The past two orns, he had spent most, if not all, of the time that he wasn’t at work poring over the data pad, muttering to himself. He had been doing fairly well, but with Beeper trying to roll around instead of taking the energon Gears had given him, the **sequein** was fairly distracted.

“You better not swear at the real ceremony, Gears,” Windcharger warned as Gears ex-vented in a frustrated hiss. “And while I’m giving orders, hold still! You’re the one who got me up early so I could do these dressings for you!”

“You’ve got the steadiest hands,” Gears pointed out. “If I could’ve, I would’ve done it myself.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Windcharger replied, only partially joking as he bent over his pace-mate’s hands, carefully waxing the grooves of his fingers and wrists with a dark copper lubricant, symbolizing the end of solitary for the “kin” femme he was giving away.

Overlaying that would be thin chains of alternating bronze and silver, which stood for maintaining old family bonds with the new. The ends of the chains looped around his wrists, riddled with finely carved glass, which served as a bright but _wary_ welcome to the future sparkmate—encouragement to treat the femme right or be cut down. Still drying on Gears’ forearms and shoulders were the embellishments of his original Micronus clan, painted in swirls of hot nickel, and the emblem of their pace marked his chest.

“It’s a great honor, what she’s asked you to do,” Windcharger mused as he laid the chains. “In Solus, the **pacenlekei** was fancier than the couple themselves! How the femme’s sire or brother looked while they handed her to her Conjunx was supposed to tell the young mech just what he had to live up to.”

“Well, it shouldn’t be any different here,” Gears answered. “Rusty has a lot to live up to if he wants to be—Beeper! Drink your energon, would you?” Gears grimaced as Beeper squealed and shook his energon over the floor before flopping into the puddle and rolling away, leaving a trail. “He finally has the strength to hold a cube that’s half-full on his own and _that’s_ what he does with it?”

“I’m just glad he’s holding anything,” Windcharger confessed, giving Gears a pointed stare. “Unlike a certain **sequein**. You need to hold still! You want this to be done right, don’t you?”

Apparently it was done just right; as soon as Cliffjumper strolled out of the hallway toward the kitchen, he picked up the energon-sticky Beeper and let out a low whistle of appreciation. “You’re goin’ stylish, Gears? I like it!”

“Wait a minute. Was that a compliment I just heard?” Windcharger questioned rhetorically, cupping one audial and leaning out curiously. “A compliment of _my_ work? I’m touched!” He was glad but surprised when Cliffjumper didn’t bark at him; he simply nodded and finished his walk to the kitchen.

Brawn and Huffer had similar opinions, studying Windcharger’s handiwork closely. “I’ve only been to a few bonding ceremonies in my life,” Huffer claimed. “But this is art, Charger. Maybe Gears will actually pull this off.”

“You’re talking about me like it’s my bonding ceremony!” Gears complained, self-conscious with the attention. “I’m just taking her to him.”

“Well, you’re part of the ceremony and it’s an important part, so in part, it is yours,” Brawn announced. “So we’d better get ready too.”

“You want any help?” Windcharger offered, eager now that his work had been flattered for a while.

“If we look as great as that in the end, why not?” Brawn agreed at the same time Cliffjumper announced, “I’m the creation of a Councilmech, so I know how to dress myself, thanks.” It was a fairly civil refusal, so Windcharger wasn’t too bothered by it. He was already picturing the strong iron leafing of Onyx and the intricate carbon engraving of Maximus.

When they reached the Nexus sanctuary where the ceremony was taking place, Windcharger slowed, studying the steps leading to the entrance. The last time he’d stood here, several vorns ago, Gears had held onto his arm so tightly he thought it would crack, making sure he wouldn’t try to escape while Brawn went in and prayed for the safe return of their One from Incinerator’s hands. Upon sensing a pair of optics on him, he turned and Brawn nodded understanding, gesturing that they should go inside. Gears had left while they were getting ready, so he was already inside, and Cliffjumper and Huffer were at the top of the steps now.

As soon as Windcharger walked in, he knew without a doubt that this was a ceremony unlike any he had ever witnessed. All of the ceremonies he’d seen in Solus had been overstuffed, formal and exclusive. No sooner had he begun to marvel at the vaulted ceiling and take specific note of the guardsmechs lining the walls did many unseen orb lights burst on all around him.

“That’s better! We can’t have a _dim_ bonding ceremony, can we!” Turbo, Rusty’s **scillniat** , exclaimed from where he stood several yards away, grinning at the cries of agreement from the group around him. They weren’t his pace-mates, Windcharger noted with puzzlement. Were they his coworkers?

Benches weren’t usually in the front room, but they had been placed for this occasion. There were friends and coworkers of Montage’s pace that Brawn’s pace didn’t know—in fact, most of them they hadn’t even seen before. _For good reason,_ Windcharger decided as he noticed Stunner shaking hands with several other mechs in the same uniformly paints of the law—including the Nexus sector police chief. Windcharger froze as Chief Harness looked over, locking optics with him. They were in Nexus…He hadn’t even considered.

Harness’ face darkened as he saw the criminal he had personally taken into custody, but then Stunner laughed at something one of his fellow officers had said and the chief seemed to relax slightly, pointedly turning his back on Windcharger. _It’s a sanctuary for whoever comes in, even if it’s you_.

“Come sit down,” Brawn ordered in a low voice, steering him toward the bench Cliffjumper had already chosen. Windcharger looked past him, his vents catching as he noticed Spar in the shadow of a pillar, inclining his helm to five figures in hoods and cloaks woven from hard holomatter and silvery chainmail, all of whom had a hand planted on his shoulders or back.

“Augmenters,” Windcharger gasped, resisting the urge to point. “Spar must be pretty important to them if they came out of Logos for this ceremony!”

“Try to contain yourself. Can’t have you squealing in the middle of the ceremony,” Cliffjumper quipped as they reached his audial range. Windcharger made a face at him but didn’t take the bait. Aside from Turbo’s animated voice, the conversations were being held in leveler tones, a sign of the reverence held for this place.

It seemed quite a long time before the ceremony began, but it was likely just the customary joor given to the pace-leader or leaders and the mate to be bonded. They spent it however they felt would be a blessing—thanking Primus, putting on further dressing, or simply being together. Windcharger wondered how Montage and Rusty, as a leader and his One, were spending their time. Before he could begin theorizing, a cool, clear braam signaled the start.

Each member of Montage’s pace paused, parting from their friends and converging on the center of the room, where a wirecloth floor textile held a pedestal, which in turn held an ornate repousséd bowl. An old Culumexian myth claimed that the bowl changed its emblem to suit the pace using it. Montage’s mates didn’t step onto the textile but they did circle around the left side of it, offering their support as their leader and One took their places.

Montage arrived first, quickly swallowing what were undoubtedly the remains of a rust stick as he stood at the edge of the textile, tall and proud. Rusty came after him, dressed in a brilliant collage of color that the artist in his pace had likely designed; he looked like a star at its brightest point before the supernova. As a higher braam sounded, Rusty passed ringed fingers over the hands that his pace-mates held out to him before swallowing hard, smiling brightly and turning his back on them to greet his intended.

Gears moved fluidly, despite the fact that he was walking backwards, and kept his optics locked with the femme he was escorting, his hands supporting but not grasping hers. Polevault’s dressings were extravagant; her armor reflected against itself with strategic light piping and golden filigree. Glossy lacquer told her life story in an amalgam of runes: the old language of the Prime age, spanning her lower back—to that of the Golden Age, mid-backstrut—to that of the present age on her shoulders. She wore a silver-and-gold circlet decorated with reflective glass and chains, creating a subtle parallel between her and her escort.

When Gears found the textile under his feet, he pivoted, laying his palms against those of the pace-leader and his One. “May the bonds of your house be greatly enriched by the presence of your new beloved, who is and will always be bound to my house, beloved to me,” he recited. It was a traditional phrase, but his vocals were telling; the formality didn’t make it any less genuine. Montage echoed it back to him and then they each took a step away.

Windcharger watched Rusty’s pace as the couple spoke their vows; the reverence and the awe they wore told just how close they were, just how much this meant to them. They loved Polevault for it almost as much as they loved their One. Gradually their line shifted from behind Rusty to behind the pedestal itself, connecting themselves to the femme and the bonds they were accepting as she and Rusty lit a flare underneath the ornate bowl and then dipped their hands into the bowl’s warm contents, rare and dazzling electrum.

“You are partners,” Montage told them softly. “Partners in all things—not possessing, but each acknowledging as one part of the whole. These vows aren’t just promises, but privileges before Primus. May Primus perceive you and bless the works of your hands.”

 **::Cacerva, Primine,::** the Conjunx Endurae murmured joyfully. The cheers from everyone that followed were near-deafening, drowning out the braam which signaled the ceremony’s end.

The reception was to be held at a multilevel restaurant which hadn’t had its grand opening yet; the contractor for it was Hightop’s pace-mate and brother, Zephyr, who had decided it would be a good trial run so long as the bonding party paid for the fuel served. Windcharger watched the couple and the pace leaving ahead of the guests, perking up when he noticed Spar slow and stop, holding Rusty back with him. The two exchanged quiet words and then Rusty ex-vented harshly, hugging the **sequein** as the five hooded augmenters loomed. Spar returned the embrace and then backed away, the nearest of his companions draping another chainmail cloak onto his shoulders. Spar hesitated for a klik or two, briefly clasped Rusty’s hands and then reluctantly put up the hood, fading into their midst as they strode away.

“Where is he going?” Windcharger muttered, optics wide. This was a precious occasion! Why wouldn’t Spar be here for his One?

“Rusty knew from the start that Spar had to leave,” Gears informed him as he came to stand at his shoulder. “Some kind of special mission that couldn’t wait. I found out with Polevault.”

“He’s going back to Logos?”

“No, no,” Gears sighed, almost scolding. “What you just saw, that was their last nanoklik before Spar left Culumex. He’s going to a **verriesen** city.”

“He’s their **sequein**!” Windcharger protested. “He can’t just leave Rusty and Montage like that!”

“Ah, don’t worry, Charger,” Brawn urged, patting his back as he passed. “Montage has a lot of support and Rusty…Were you watching? He’s in Polevault’s capable hands.”

Windcharger ex-vented slowly as he watched his mates move to follow the bonding party. He just had to trust everything would work out as it was meant to. Primus would perceive, and Windcharger planned to have a great time with his own pace while he waited to discover how.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ::Cacerva, Primine:: - "Perceive, Primus"
> 
> So...much... _culture_ <3 Please, please leave a comment and tell me what you think of this chapter, guys, I'm so proud of it!!


	14. Chapter 14

The reception for Rusty and Polevault was fairly extravagant by Nexus standards, Cliffjumper noted, watching the proceedings with a calm, critical optic. Given the variety of professions among his pace-mates, Montage had clearly felt able and willing to splurge.

The reception venue was several floors tall, with the bonding party taking up three of the floors since they had so many guests. Each room was decorated with strings of light piping and spiraling crystals dangling from the rafters, looped along wirecloth curtains, or encircling the support pillars lining the room. Much like there were in the sanctuary, orb lights were tucked into inconspicuous places, giving off a cool, colorful glow.

On the whole, Cliffjumper wasn’t overly _impressed_ , having been to a few Epistemus bonding receptions in his lifetime, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t able to admire or enjoy the view. He could see his own pace-mates were enjoying it. Brawn and Huffer were treading lightly, but more out of wonder than discomfort. Windcharger, Solus mech that he was, looked quite comfortable with the glamor, and Gears didn’t bother paying it too much attention; he was busy talking with each of Rusty’s pace-mates.

“He’s probably giving them the ‘You-hurt-her-and-I’ll-hunt-you’ speech,” Brawn had offhandedly remarked when it was pointed out, but he hadn’t really meant it. They had all detected how well Gears was doing at opening up a little and enjoying himself here and they weren’t about to spoil it or bring it up to him. That would only result in the shields coming back up and an insult, so they would just pretend they hadn’t noticed.

Further evidence against Brawn’s claim was how spirited Rusty’s pace seemed. Montage was in his element, bustling around and chattering with every guest, making sure not to neglect anyone; he was an extrovert if Cliffjumper had ever seen one. Cliff couldn’t see much of Rusty through the crowd around him and Spar was missing completely, but he spotted Stunner easily, overlooking the proceedings with intent focus but finding no trouble; he was bristling with satisfaction. Mesh was talking with a young, pretty femme who was clearly interested in him, but he seemed oblivious to it. Feedback was in the sound booth, scolding the traxcaster chosen for the event for something or another and blasting _his_ chosen datatrax instead. Con-Struct was on the outskirts of the busyness, wandering and admiring the decorations, and Turbo seemed torn between walking with him and bounding outside to soothe his turbopuppies, which were conspicuously not allowed inside due to the location.

Polevault, meanwhile, took the opportunity to dance to whatever softer trax Feedback played. Cliffjumper’s brows rose when he noted whoever danced with her offered a bow and a credit stick at the end. _Ohh, that old Nexus tradition,_ he recalled. _Anyone who dances with the bonded helps them pay for their personal_ _retreat_. Just as soon as her latest dance partner retreated, Gears whisked her away. Unlike the others, she kept him for two songs, seeming startled when he presented two credit sticks in return. She shook her helm vigorously and he huffed, nodding back and waving them at her until she reluctantly accepted. With that done, Gears retreated toward the table Cliffjumper was sitting on.

“I didn’t know you could dance,” Cliffjumper remarked innocently.

“I don’t usually have reason to,” Gears shot back, reaching past Cliff for his energon cube. The grocer considered playfully nudging Gears’ arm and spilling some of his cube on the table, but before he could, an amber red and gray femme approached them, lightly putting a hand on Gears’ shoulder.

“Excuse me…You’re the **pacenlekei** for Polevault, aren’t you?” she questioned. Gears swept her up in a wary gaze, nodding wordlessly. She smiled slightly, inclining her helm. “A pleasure. My name is Merit and I’m Rush Hour’s carrier.”

Gears blinked, setting the energon cube down and folding his arms. “Rush Hour,” he echoed cautiously. “Sorry, I don’t know him.”

“Oh,” she tutted sheepishly. “I’m sorry, but he’ll always be Rush Hour to me. To you, he’s probably Rusty, yes?” Cliffjumper could see Gears hastily filing the new name into a subfolder, just like he was, as she went on, “Polevault seems like a fine young femme, but I wanted to learn some things about you, as her brother.”

 _Brother?_ Cliffjumper glanced sharply at Gears, who blinked a few more times. It was rare that someone managed to force Gears to speechlessness, but assuming he was Polevault’s brother because he had taken her to Rusty apparently did the trick. Fortunately he recovered himself after a few more kliks.

“I’m a few vorns older than her,” he allowed. “And I wasn’t sure what to think about this ceremony at first, when she told me. No offense to Rusty, of course, but she’s—well, y’know.”

“Of course,” Merit assured him kindly. “Just as I would think no one is good enough for my creation, so you would think for her. I understand! It’s hard to let go sometimes and because of that, my pace is very curious about you and yours.” Lowering her voice conspiratorially, she added, “I think they’re taking it harder than I am.”

“Your pace?” Gears echoed. Merit nodded, glancing over her shoulder at a group of four who tried to look busy as they spied from across the way. Cliffjumper felt some of his plating prickle but did his best to smooth it back down and look at ease.

“We’re a small pace, you understand. They were quite…startled, shall we say, when Rusty became **unuceim** for a pace of eight! Now he’s bonding and they’re trying to feel reassured.”

“She’s worth everything Rusty could ever give her,” Gears stated, his tone unreadable. “She’s worth the rest of his life and he…he’s worth the rest of hers.”

Merit studied him intently for another minute before conceding. “I’ll tell them that.”

As soon as she was out of audial range, Gears commented, “It’s not every orn you get to see the creators’ paces.”

Cliffjumper shook his helm incredulously. “That’s all you have to say? Nothing about how she assumed Polevault wasn’t good enough for Rusty? Nothing about how she assumed you were Polevault’s brother?”

“Do I _look_ like I want to talk about that here?” Gears asked rhetorically, glowering at him.

“Talk about what?” Windcharger asked as he approached, Brawn and Huffer on his heelstruts.

“About other people making assumptions and members of our pace making impersonations to suit them,” Cliffjumper answered pointedly, to which Windcharger pressed his lips into a tight line.

“Actually, we were talking about creators’ paces,” Gears butted in, his tone just as firm. Clearly he wanted to change the subject and none of the others were going to argue that when their **sequein** had been in such a good mood before.

“My creators were in a pace,” Huffer mused, skirting past Windcharger to lean against the table. “They were **trilitare** and **quanidre** , but after they died and I enlisted with Remix, I lost track of where their pace ended up. I figured it would happen.”

“My creators are **sequein** and **quiendus**. They still have a pace back in Solus, I think, but their pace-mates weren’t interested in getting to know me, so I’ve never checked in on them,” Windcharger shrugged it off. “They weren’t that interesting to me anyway. What about you, Gears?”

“Yeah,” Gears confirmed with a sigh. “Switch and Gadget were the One and the **quanidre**. They met through their pace-mates but once NET got ahold of me, they weren’t allowed in. When I went to visit, I found their **trilitare** , Blockaide. He was the one who met me there and told me…things I didn’t want to hear.”

There was a nanoklik of somber silence and then Cliffjumper became uncomfortable, speaking up. “My creators aren’t in a pace. Neither of them really wanted to be; they wanted to focus on making a life for themselves. That got ’em some pretty strange looks in Epistemus, but they didn’t care. That ended up being how they met. First they were business partners and then the rest is history, I guess.”

“Aren’t they concerned that the strange looks are going to get worse?” Windcharger asked incredulously. “The honor of having a pace is important in Solus and now they live there! Living there without a pace is practically begging for judgement.”

Cliffjumper felt his spark churn at those words with surprise, concern, and bitterness in succession. “What’re you saying?” he questioned in a low voice, almost unheard under the music. “You sayin’ they won’t be able to get by without a pace to _rescue_ them? Cos that’s what it sounds like.”

“Ugh, you always overreact,” Windcharger complained, throwing up his hands. “I’m saying they should’ve done their research when they moved to Solus, that’s all! That’s it! Or maybe they did, they knew what they were getting into and that’s why they left you behind.”

“I _chose_ to stay behind!” Cliff snapped, leaping up from the table. “Cos I didn’t want to spend my time hangin’ around with self-important upper-class mechs who never knew when to quit!” Before either he or Windcharger could say anything more, both received a jarring thump to the helm, much harder than the ones Gears provided.

“You’d fit in well with them,” Huffer snapped, “cos obviously you don’t know when to quit either! We’re not doing this here.”

“Fine,” Cliffjumper grumbled, gingerly pressing a hand to the dent in his helm and forcing a smile that was more like a grimace. “Brawn, how about _your_ creators? Any pace-mates?”

“Yeah, and they disowned me just as quickly as my creators did,” Brawn announced flatly, optics drilling holes into the red mech.

Cliffjumper froze and felt the others follow suit. Lowering his hand slightly into a more apologetic gesture, Cliff managed, “I…I didn’t…”

“Never mind,” Brawn cut him off. “You’re all the family I care about.” None of them had a chance to answer, as there was a sharp crash from across the room. Upon turning, they distinguished Rusty and Polevault bent over several pieces of crystal scattered across the floor.

“I guess it’s time for housekeeping,” Windcharger mumbled, reaching up and wrenching one of the crystal strands out of the ceiling to bring it down on the floor. Several of the other guests followed suit, tearing the decorations down and sending pieces flying.

As Cliff shattered the crystals looping the curtains, he watched the couple in his peripheral vision while they gathered up the broken pieces. This was meant to convey the message that working together, they could handle whatever challenges came at them. He suspected it was also meant to force the guests to work together and since work was such a high value in this sector, it eventually started to succeed, even for him. Work was therapeutic and by the time all of the crystals were broken, their pace felt pleasant again.

He wouldn’t forget what Charger had said, though. It was the last time Cliff gave it any thought before he pushed it into a subfolder and watched as Polevault stood on a table with a bundle of simple iron cuttings, riddled with rust. Giggling lightly, she began taking pieces from the bundle and tossing them among the guests. In a way, it made even more of a mess, but it was still an important custom. It was said that if the cutting of iron had no rust, the owner would be the next to bond.

Cliffjumper couldn’t help laughing when the bonded-to-be was the femme who had spent almost the entire party following Mesh. She squealed gleefully, first hugging the bright and polished iron piece and then the nearest mech, who turned out to be the medic himself. Mesh patted her back and offered his congratulations but bashfully retreated toward Stunner as soon as he was released.

The rest of the party was a blur, and Brawn’s pace was the last to leave. They had really enjoyed the break they’d been given from watching over Beeper and the idea of it ending so quickly made their sparks sink just a little. They perked up almost instantly, however, upon getting home.

“Something’s different,” Huffer burst out, spinning a complete circle and wringing his hands. “This isn’t good.”

“Where’d my energon go?” Gears demanded. “I left it on the table and—”

“And the thermal tarps are gone too!” Windcharger picked up the sentence. “I left them on the floor, right here!”

“And you should be ashamed of yourselves!” Beeper’s minder tutted as she emerged from the other room. “While Genre and Beeper have been playing, I’ve been cleaning up after you.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” Brawn informed her sternly.

“Oh, of course I did!” Genre’s carrier exclaimed. “There were thermal tarps, energon cubes, decorative paint, and fuel everywhere!” At their sheepish glances, she softened. “I know you left in a hurry for the bonding ceremony, but rest assured that you _never_ would have wanted Genre getting ahold of that frame paint! As for everything else, well, all it needed was a femme’s touch.” Smiling coyly, she added, “Maybe you ought to have a femme around more often.”

“Ahh…” Fortunately Brawn was spared from answering that remark, as Genre bolted down the hallway into view.

“Winder, you’re back!” he exclaimed, glancing shyly at the others before taking a few steps back, toward his carrier, and locking his optics on Windcharger, who he was most familiar with.

The performer grinned, crouching. “And what have you been up to while I’ve been gone, Genre?”

Genre brightened, rocking back and forth enthusiastically. “Beeper and I have been playing hide-and-seek, and he’s _really_ good at it! You have to see what he can do!” He glanced over his shoulder at the sparkling, just now appearing at a leisurely roll and chirruping happily. “Here, I’ll get one of the toys I found for him!” So saying, Genre raced into Brawn and Huffer’s room.

“Toys?” Brawn echoed. “They got into my collection?”

Genre returned with two toys, one large and one small, and showed them both to Beeper, who blinked and whistled curiously. Genre smiled widely in return and then was off again, pushing the larger figurine under the couch and the smaller onto as high a shelf as he could reach. “Where are they, Beeper?” he called, folding his arms. “Find them!”

Beeper paused, tilting his helm to one side, and then pointed at the couch with a decisive chirp. Genre didn’t move and Beeper chirped again more insistently, still pointing. This continued until Genre finally conceded and pulled out the toy. Beeper giggled, hugging the figure when it was presented to him. It reminded Cliff of the femme at the reception and he chuckled again.

“And what about the smaller one?” Genre asked, holding up his hands and feigning disbelief. “It’s gone! Where is it?”

After several minutes of thought, Beeper glanced in the direction of the door, squealing when he noticed the adults had returned. Eagerly he held out his arms for Gears, who huffed and picked him up. For a klik or two, Beeper tugged at the chains on Gears’ forearms and then he lost interest, twisting around and studying the room. Now that he was at a better height to see, he pointed at the shelf.

“See?!” Genre cried proudly. “He’s the best seeker ever!”

This whole routine stuck in Cliffjumper’s mind for a while after Genre and his carrier left and the pace headed to their separate rooms. It made him all the more curious about what else Bee could do, what he would become. Cliff didn’t stay in his berth for long; instead he walked the length of the hall toward the spare room. Someone had to check on the little mech and make sure he wasn’t so tired from the long game of hide-and-seek that he couldn’t recharge and was fussing.

That wasn’t at all what he found. The door slid open, but Cliffjumper didn’t enter, recoiling just enough that he couldn’t be seen in the darkness. Clearly Brawn had been on the same track as Cliff, but it was startling to see him sitting against the wall, holding the recharging sparkling.

What if Bee woke up and panicked at the sight of the mech who scared him? Cliff was seriously considering an intervention until Brawn spoke, just loud enough to hear.

“We’re alike, you and me, little guy. Lousy creators. They think they can just dump us and we won’t ever have another family,” he muttered, ex-venting slowly. “But you’re going to be fine, Beeper. You’ll find _someone_ , like I did. Just be patient.”

Cliffjumper found it unusually hard to swallow as he let the door close without a sound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I'm sorry for the delay, but I had a vacation and then I got pretty sick, so it's taken me a few weeks to get back on my feet. Thanks for your patience! 
> 
> A little shoutout: Silent_P mentioned on the last chapter that you haven't heard much about the paces of the creators. I had planned on addressing it eventually, but that interest was what encouraged me to finally get around to it. Thanks for the inspiration! :)


	15. Chapter 15

After a long night, Brawn was quite displeased to be brought out of recharge by a hand shaking his shoulder, nearly wrenching it out of its socket.

“Brawn! You have to get up! Please, please…”

The urgency in the whisper cut through the veil of recharge much better than the shaking had. He lurched upright, shoving off the hand and demanding, “What? What is it?” The growl in his voice was aimed more at whatever the threat might be than at Windcharger, who was the one shaking him.

“It’s Interim!” his **trilitare** hissed. “The femme from the sparkling agency; she just called and told me she’s on her way for a visit!”

Brawn’s mouth opened but no sound left it. Mutely he watched with wide optics as Windcharger abandoned him and rattled Huffer until he was online too. It wasn’t long before the entire pace was assembled in the lounge and Windcharger was walking the lengths of the room.

“So what are we going to do about this?” Gears questioned, his vocals low but with a defensive undertone as he gave energon to the sparkling in his arms.

“Why are you asking me?” Windcharger shot back nervously.

“You—You’re supposedly our ‘pace-leader, Cliffjumper,’” Huffer pointed out, tense and shivery. “If you don’t prep us and we give ourselves away, _everything_ is going to go wrong! So tell us who…who we are right now.”

By the look on Windcharger’s face, it was disconcerting for Huffer to be turning to him for guidance instead of to Brawn. Brawn suspected he was wearing a similar look, as Windcharger wavered when he peeked over at him.

“I guess…you’re **trilitare** , Brawn,” he offered meekly. “I’m sorry, I wish there was anything else I could give you, but—”

“I get it,” Brawn cut him off tersely. “The bigger problem is ol’ Spitfire.”

The real Cliffjumper met all of their optics with his own narrowed. “What, am I supposed to go by ‘Windcharger’ for her?” he spat. “Cos I won’t.”

“Then don’t do it for her,” Brawn snapped. “Do it for _him_.” He peered over at Beeper and even though Gears had him angled away from Brawn to prevent any crying, he knew Cliff could see the mechling clearly.

Cliffjumper faltered, clenching and unclenching his fists on top of his knees, and finally inclined his helm in a bare hint of a nod. If Brawn were honest, he hadn’t expected that to work, but it proved that even the most stubborn could soften for a sparkling. It would have been endearing under any other circumstance.

“So if that’s settled,” Windcharger began, “I guess we need to, uh, talk about how you act the parts.”

“It can’t be that hard,” Cliffjumper answered flatly. “I act impatient, talk really fast, and look down on anyone who gets annoyed with me.”

“I act passive, modest, and obedient,” Brawn put in. Windcharger seemed startled by that, so he quickly added, “Dutiful.”

The expression didn’t change as Windcharger looked between them, though his stare lingered more on Cliff. “Is that _really_ how you see me?” he asked them with some amazement. Before either of them could answer, there was a ping from the front door. The pace shared a sequence of panicked glances and then Windcharger worked to steel himself, letting the door open. “Good morning, Interim,” he greeted.

“Cliffjumper,” the agent returned, looking past him. “Ahh, I see your whole pace is here. I’m glad to meet them.”

“That’s right, this is my pace,” Windcharger repeated, tossing a note of authority into his voice that Brawn found very, very familiar; he often used it himself. “You’ve already met Huffer. This is Gears, our **sequein** …Brawn, the **t-trilitare** , and Windcharger, our **quanidre**.” To his pace-mates, Windcharger sounded like he had just drank a cube of spoiled energon, but Interim didn’t seem to notice.

“Again, I’m glad to meet you,” she assured them with a prim smile, regarding Gears intently. The **sequein** held her gaze steadily, clearly having suspected he would be the object of scrutiny since he was the one in possession of the sparkling. “I’m sure you’ll all be glad to hear my news,” the femme went on, looking at each of them in turn. “After some careful consideration and research, my agency has made a decision on a proper home for the sparkling.”

There was a beat of silence. “You—you’ve found a **sponsire**?” Windcharger tried to clarify.

“That’s right,” Interim confirmed with another expectant look at Gears, who had tightened his hold on Beeper ever so slightly. “So if you want, I’ll take him off your hands. The couple is waiting outside.”

Brawn glanced at Gears, who stared back with an expression the pace-leader found abnormally easy to read: apprehension. He knew exactly what Gears was thinking; he had no desire to give the sparkling to people he hadn’t even seen. “Maybe it’d be nice to meet them first?” Brawn asked in his stead.

“Of course,” Interim conceded. “I assure you, sirs, they’re perfectly suited to care for him.” With this confident remark, she glanced over her shoulder and made a summoning gesture. Brawn warily studied the couple that approached and he could sense the suspicion from his pace-mates too. “Reset, Journey, this is Cliffjumper and his pace,” Interim introduced them to the couple. “They’ve taken care of the sparkling up to this point.”

“Thank you for that,” the femme, Journey, addressed them all gratefully. “I’m sure he couldn’t have been in safer hands.”

“I’m sure of it too,” Huffer agreed, making an effort to sound pleasant but not quite sticking the landing. The femme looked surprised but fortunately made no comment on it.

“We’ll do our best to live up to your standards,” her sparkmate Reset offered, clearly hoping to reassure them.

“Did Interim give you the sparkling-care list that she gave us?” Windcharger asked, loosely folding his arms.

“Reset is a certified **sponsire** ,” Interim answered for him. “He’s already been trained in everything on the list.” Glancing at her chronometer, she added, “I believe you have my comm. unit number, yes? If you get worried, you can call and I’ll give you an update on how the sparkling’s adjusting, but I’m afraid for now I _am_ on a schedule.”

“Of course,” Brawn agreed reluctantly, nudging Gears gently. The **sequein** continued to hesitate for another few kliks before he gradually crept forward and put Beeper into the agent’s arms. She in turn handed him to Journey, who hefted him up and whispered a hello.

As soon as the transfer was made, Beeper chirruped in confusion, doing his best to turn and wave his arms at Gears in the hopes that he would take him back. Instead, Gears hastily recoiled, to the sparkling’s visible dismay. Twittering in discomfort, he squirmed a little against the hands detaining his midsection. This proved fruitless and he made another small twitter.

“Hey, it’s alright, little mech,” Journey crooned, patting his back. He did his best to dodge away from her touch, optics widening and locking onto Gears, who pursed his lips and took another few steps back. As he did so, Brawn sensed pain flaring in his EM field that Gears was trying—and failing—to smooth down.

“Call him Beeper,” Windcharger suggested timidly. “He…he likes that.”

“Or Bee,” Cliffjumper muttered, vocals rough with mutual sadness.

“It’s alright, Beeper,” Journey tried again, looking puzzled when he barely gave her a glance, becoming even more disturbed by the fact that Gears was ignoring him. He jerked his feet in and out and then looked to Cliffjumper, who couldn’t meet his optics. When he found no refuge there, he glanced frantically between the two of them, releasing a warble.

“He’s going to adjust,” Interim assured Reset, who looked as dubious as Brawn felt. Did she not see the resistance Beeper had to this? It was enough that the nervecircuits in Brawn’s arms crawled; he remembered how he had held the mechling, resisted the urge to take him back. He knew that would only scare Beeper further, but not so with Gears. From the look on Gears’ face, Beeper was making _his_ resistance harder with every passing klik. The little one’s vents had started spasming as he grew more and more upset and finally he released a long mewl. Gears immediately tensed to move forward, but Interim maneuvered between them.

“No, don’t. He needs to understand that Reset and Journey are going to be his source of comfort,” she explained, grimacing as Beeper burst into angry, desperate tears behind her and Cliffjumper stiffened, shifting his weight as if he were considering _moving_ her.

“It’s going to be fine,” Brawn managed, though the sparkling’s sobs had him just as edgy as Cliffjumper felt when he put a hand on his shoulder to stop him. Cliff made to jerk out of Brawn’s grip as Beeper’s cries rose to a wail, but Brawn tightened his grip. It went against everything he felt; while he was fending off Gears and Cliff’s hostility, he could barely stand the dismay on Windcharger’s face and the despair on Huffer’s.

“I’m sure we’ll get it sorted out on the way back,” Interim insisted over Beeper’s cries, turning away. “Thank you for taking care of him.” She whisked out with Reset close behind. The femme paused for a nanoklik longer, casting them an apologetic glance before turning away. Vocalizer crackling, Beeper howled all the louder, reaching pleadingly over her shoulder. It was the last thing they saw as the front door slid closed and then Cliffjumper wrenched away from Brawn, bristling in helpless rage.

“Frag. Frag it all to the fraggin’ Unmaker!” he snarled, shoving past them down the hall. A following trill told them he had locked himself in his room and it would have seemed immature if the rest of them didn’t feel the same way. Gears stumbled a little over his own feet, optics fixed on the door as though that would force it open again. When it didn’t work, he contracted his vents, held the air and whirled away, marching toward his berthroom. Windcharger couldn’t seem to move for a minute or two and then he wandered slowly toward the stairs leading up to the roof. Huffer sat on the couch without a word, folding his hands and resting his chamfron against them.

“I thought this was what we wanted,” Brawn protested distantly, unnerved by the air of empty defeat.

“It was,” Huffer assured him jadedly. “But like everything else in our stupid, cursed lives, nothing turned out like we hoped.”

Brawn took a few minutes to process these words, feeling slightly sick, and then ex-vented shallowly, walking to the kitchen and gathering some supplies. Huffer looked up as he strode back to the front door with just enough purpose to keep him moving, maneuvering some energon cubes into his subspace.

“Where are you going?” the engineer asked in disbelief, rising and pursuing him for a few steps.

“I don’t know, I don’t care, and I don’t know how long I’ll be gone,” Brawn answered sharply, spinning around to face him and, as an afterthought, briefly putting their chamfrons together, softening his voice. “Take care of them.”

“But you can’t just—” Because of their proximity, Huffer must have sensed something in his EM field that warned him not to object further, as his optics dimmed and he conceded, “Fine. Fine, I will. Just come back soon or call or…The last time you did this…”

 _The last time I did this, he didn’t know if I was coming back or if I even wanted him as my One anymore,_ Brawn recalled. “I’m not angry with any of you, little One,” he told him emphatically. “I just need time to—to _think_.” With these words, he made his escape.

What he’d said to Huffer was true; he had no idea where he was going. He wandered through Epistemus and then Nexus for an amount of time he didn’t bother to count before realizing just how angry he was. He couldn’t explain why, but he figured he really shouldn’t want to be alone with his feelings. He needed someone to talk to, but right now he just wasn’t able to go back home. He needed someone impartial, someone older and wiser, who wouldn’t lose his cool if Brawn did.

It would be a long trip, one that he probably shouldn’t make—or at the very least he should call and tell his pace-mates where he was going if he wanted to keep them from worrying, but he didn’t want them getting any ideas about following him. He wanted to do this without them, without the burden of keeping it together for them.

Several joors later, he stepped off an airway pod into the bustling sector of Solus and asked for directions. Another joor after that, his agitated knocking was answered.

“Hello, Brawn,” Skydive greeted him cautiously, looking over his shoulder for any sign of the others. “Is Cliffjumper with you?”

“No, no, he's back home,” Brawn brushed away the question, self-consciously folding his arms. “I just—I need to talk to you. I couldn’t think of anyone else.”

“Well, if it was important enough to make this long journey, I suspect you don’t want to talk about it on the front step,” Skydive mused, stepping aside to let him in.


	16. Chapter 16

It had been thirty vorns since Huffer had last recharged alone; he’d gotten out of practice. His optics ached as his gaze constantly shifted from the ceiling to the empty berth on the opposite wall and then back to the ceiling. It was well past three in the morning, probably getting towards four by now, and all he could do was toss and turn until the thermal tarp was uncomfortably hot and his shoulders were rigid.

Needless to say, he was fretful. The last time Brawn had left like this, his night had been even worse; they hadn’t yet performed the Ritus and he had felt…abandoned, paranoid. He trusted Brawn now, of course, but he wanted him here. He was a reassuring presence. Huffer had problems recharging alone when he was a sparkling and reliving them now was unpleasant, to say the least.

Groaning quietly, he kicked his overly warm thermal tarp onto the floor and stood, stumbling toward the empty berth and procuring the cooler tarp for himself. Hopefully Brawn wouldn’t return sometime in the night and have a rough night without his tarp. With the fresh covering, Huffer managed to get about a joor or two of recharge before he jerked online again and realized his systems weren’t going to cooperate any longer.

 _Of course they wouldn’t,_ he grumbled mentally, trudging out of the berthroom and turning toward the one adjacent. He should check on—

He stopped up short in front of the closed door, pursing his lips. How had he become so accustomed to Beeper’s presence in such a short time? It had only been a quintun or two that the sparkling was here! Hadn’t he wanted Beeper to be taken to a nice home so they could move on? The whole time Beeper was with them, he had hoped that wish wasn’t selfish; he wanted it for his pace-mates just as much as for the little one. Taking care of him had taken a lot out of them.

 _Although, not having him here might just take_ more _out of them,_ Huffer realized as he turned and found Gears slumped on the couch, tossing an empty can of home Visco next to a little pile of tinfoil wrappers.

“Gears?” Huffer kept his voice soft as he crept forward. “Wh-What are you doing up this early?”

“I could ask the same of you,” Gears answered flatly, tearing open another wrapper and starting on a chrome cake.

“Is all of this…” Huffer gingerly picked up a few pieces of the trash. “…from this morning?”

“No.” Gears didn’t seem like he was going to elaborate, but after a few more bites of the cake he added, “I’ve been up since about 11:45, so some of it is technically from last night.” Still not looking up, he pointedly changed the subject. “When’s Brawn coming home? Where’d he go in the first fraggin’ place?”

“I—I don’t know,” Huffer admitted at length, stuffing the wrappers into the empty Visco can and then sinking into the chair opposite the couch. “He just…needs some space.”

“He could’ve gone on a walk if he wanted some ‘space,’” Gears sulked, bitterness leaking into his tones. Huffer said nothing and the **sequein** finally looked at him, his optics glittering pallidly, betraying his firm tone as he stated, “He may need space, but _we_ need him here.”

“It’s not like he’s gone for good. He’ll come back,” Huffer reminded him. Even to himself he sounded nervous, but it wasn’t in doubt of Brawn; it was in doubt of Gears. He couldn’t remember a time that Gears had gone completely without recharge and he had a feeling there would be side effects.

Before he could mention this to Gears, however, he heard a sharp rattle and a series of thumps from the hall. Windcharger emerged with a dour mumble of greeting, his musical instrument in his hands.

Huffer watched with concern as the **trilitare** sat at the small table across the room and set the vlin down, cracking his fingers before working on a tune-up. As soon as the squeaking and droning from the instrument started, Gears glowered in Windcharger’s direction, leapt to his feet, and prowled toward the kitchen, probably for more fuel.

“Don’t finish the Garbage O’s or you won’t have any more for the quintun,” Huffer warned him, earning a noncommittal wave of the hand before the red and blue mech disappeared. It was rare that they closed the kitchen door, but as Windcharger’s instrument continued its squeals, Gears did so—moreover, he locked it.

Huffer winced at a particularly harsh screech, but before he could open his mouth to mention it, Windcharger hissed in frustration, pushing the vlin away and moving toward the hall closet, pulling out several boxes and futzing through their contents. It wasn’t long before he abandoned that too, wandering from one disorderly pastime to the next before finally faltering to a stop at the nearby shelves.

“What is it?” Huffer probed, receiving no answer. Windcharger stood with his back to the One for a long series of minutes before reaching up and pulling a small object from the middle shelf, holding it gently. Huffer tentatively approached, his vents catching lightly when he saw it was the figurine Genre and Beeper had been playing with. Swallowing hard, he ventured, “Charger…”

“Who left all of this slag right in the middle of the walkway?!” Cliffjumper barked, startling them with his sudden appearance. He was gesturing wildly to the boxes that had been pulled out of the closet.

“Just pick them up if they bother you so much, Cliff,” Windcharger muttered, receiving a sneer.

“I should’ve known it was you!” This was the grocer’s only comment before he kicked the boxes aside with unnecessary force and stalked up the stairs to the roof. Huffer watched him go with an overwhelming sense of helplessness.

 _Take care of them,_ Brawn had ordered, but Huffer could see where Gears was coming from. Brawn would have known what to say to Cliff. Usually he would bark and bite where it was needed and Huffer would be his backup; it wasn’t often that he took point on handling Cliffjumper. On Cliff’s bad orns, orns like this, he didn’t know how Brawn did it.

Here, however, it wasn’t just Cliffjumper. Windcharger scoffed, tossing the figurine back onto the shelf and throwing up his hands. “You see that, Huffer?” he demanded angrily. “It’s just what I always say. Let’s hope he stays on the roof; let him pitch a fit the whole orn for all I care as long as he does it up there! I’m taking a wash!”

For about a joor after that, Huffer was left alone, listening to the wash-racks run and the faint rifling through kitchen cabinets. The constant banging on the roof told him that Cliffjumper was probably on the half-court, working the ballobots much harder than usual. _He’d better hope his rapport with them doesn’t suffer because of that,_ Huffer mused worriedly. Despite how turbulent most of his relationships were, Cliffjumper prided himself on how respectfully he treated the ballobots, unlike so many other players.

How was it that the absence of Beeper and Brawn had the pace’s tensions running so high? Huffer didn’t imagine he would figure it out any time soon, nor did he particularly care; right now, he just wanted to calm them all down somehow.

If he wasn’t resorting to snapping at his mates to resolve their issues, Brawn was often making them a meal. Maybe that would help, Huffer decided. After about twenty minutes of needling, he managed to coax Gears into letting him in and keeping the door open as per usual.

“I hope you have room for what I’m making,” Huffer commented pointedly, shaking the box of Garbage O’s, which was now mostly empty. Gears huffed in annoyance at the inference but nonetheless came to stand at his shoulder, watching as he pulled ingredients out of the cabinets.

“What _are_ you making?” he asked when Huffer didn’t go on.

“Wouldn’t you rather be surprised when it’s finished?” Huffer countered, hoping he sounded more cheerful than he felt.

“Not really,” Gears grumped. “I don’t like surprises and if I’m remembering right, neither do you. Spill it.”

If he were honest, Huffer had no idea what he was making, but he had to throw something nice together if he wanted this to be a success. He wasn’t in the mood to be honest and have Gears mock him for his indecisiveness, so he simply shrugged and grunted, “Eh.” To his surprise, Gears didn’t seem too miffed with the lack of answer and hopped onto the counter to more attentively watch what he was doing.

Another breem or so passed and Huffer had mixed together an amalgam of their sweetest fuel reserves. Gears would sample it from time to time, telling him what it needed for balance, and Windcharger was alternating between wandering the house and standing in the kitchen doorway, sullenly keeping an optic on them. It was during one of Windcharger’s visits that Huffer abruptly realized the banging on the roof had ceased.

No sooner had he made this observation did Cliffjumper arrive, muttering, “Out of my way,” and elbowing Windcharger just enough that he could skirt past him. In one swift motion Windcharger caught himself, lunged forward and latched onto the arm that had bumped him, jerking Cliff to a halt. “Get off!” the **quanidre** snapped, wrenching his arm away and whirling around. Huffer spun around too, several internal alarms going off simultaneously.

“What’s your malfunction, Cliffjumper?” Windcharger demanded. “What did I do to hurt your feelings this time?!”

“You haven’t ‘hurt my feelings’; you’re _aggravating_ me,” Cliffjumper growled.

“By doing what? Standing here? No, there’s always something with you; you’re always acting like anything I do is a mistake!” Windcharger declared, folding his arms.

“Well, I’ll tell you a big fraggin’ _mistake_ you made: bringing the mechling here!” Laughing bitterly at Windcharger’s surprise, Cliffjumper shook his helm violently. “Cos you think you’re the best solution to everything and look what’s happened now! Beeper’s gone, Brawn’s gone, and you’re standing here without a clue to tell you that it’s _your_ fault! If you hadn’t brought the sparkling here in the first place—”

“What, so you’d have him stay in the garbage?!” Windcharger cried indignantly. “That just goes to show how _you_ were raised!”

“Yeah? Makin’ another crack at my creators, Windcharger?” Cliffjumper sneered, accent coming in thick as it only did when he became cruel. “What about you?! You came up with your perfect Solus creators who taught you t’be just as perfect as they were—oh, wait, how did the pace find you? With the slaggin’ lowlifes of the Underground! You’re not as heroic as y’think you are!”

“You’re one to talk!” Windcharger hollered, looming over him. “What have you ever done that was so special? You’re barely an Epistemus mech; you’re just a stupid, crazy Nexus _grocer!_ You’ve never amounted to anything!”

“Charger, CJ, that’s enough!” Huffer burst out.

“Get outta my face, Windcharger!” Cliffjumper shouted, shoving the taller mech back with enough force that he stumbled and fell, but no sooner had he landed did he vault back to his feet, optics blazing, magnetism buzzing like a force of enraged Insecticons as he lifted a hand menacingly as though to strike the other across the face.

“What’re you gonna do, you fragger?!” Cliff taunted, steam from his glass gas curling around his fingers as he threw up his hands. “You gonna take me down like you did the Archive?! You’re a murderer already; you gonna fall back on old habits?!”

“Don’t test me!” Windcharger threatened.

“Stop it, both of you! That’s enough! Are you _glitched?!_ ” Huffer demanded, spark churning in panic as he started to move between them.

“Stay out of this!” both combatants roared at once, though Cliffjumper was the one who actually made a move. He jerked a hand in his direction, however unintentional, and glass gas splattered across Huffer’s arm and the wall just behind him. Somewhere in the background Gears gasped and Huffer couldn’t withstand the sudden rage that lunged to the forefront of his thoughts.

“I said ENOUGH!” he screamed, his fist crashing through the brittle glass coating on the wall, shattering it on impact. Cliffjumper shrank back as though the fist had struck him instead and Windcharger shuddered, shielding himself from thick chunks of the wall that went flying. Huffer was too caught up in his anger to care about the damage, charging forward and seizing both of them by the backs of their necks, jerking their faces close to his so quickly that their helms almost clanged together.

“You think you can _slander_ and _threaten_ each other and expect me to let you? You think you can just _dismiss_ me?” he snarled. “Have you forgotten who I am?! I’m the One for this pace and until Brawn comes back, I am the _leader_ of this pace! When I say you’re done, _you—are—done_. Are you hearing me? Are you?!” He received hurried nods from both and pushed them away, looking them up and down heatedly. “You’ll have to face Brawn when he gets home. I suggest you try to come up with a very, _very_ good defense for what you did, and you can do that where I don’t have to look at you. Go.”

The guilty pair stared at him in wordless alarm for a few kliks before glancing at each other. For the first time they seemed to be in perfect agreement, leaving together. There was a minute of silence and then Huffer ex-vented, glancing at the gouge in the wall and then at the damage the glass gas had done to his arm.

“Want me to treat that?” Gears broke the silence, slipping down from the counter. After a hesitation, Huffer nodded and Gears took him to his stash of medical supplies for some hardening gel that would keep the brittle area from cracking. As he worked, Gears cleared his throat and remarked carefully, “They say that behind every great pace-leader, there’s a strong One.”

“Well, just like being a humble One, being a strong One has its drawbacks,” Huffer answered, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his olfactory sensor. “Being _both_ …that’s worse.”

Gears found nothing to say to that, but he didn’t leave when he was finished with the arm. They stuck together, and the rest of the morning was quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, this chapter was intense for all involved O.o Huffer thought his shoulders were tight? _Mine_ are tight from writing this! It was only a matter of time, though...


	17. Chapter 17

Gears was treading lightly. He had no idea if Huffer would have another outburst of anger about what Cliffjumper and Windcharger had said and done, though after they finished the sweet mix of fuel that Huffer had made and had it with some energon, his rage seemed to have cooled. Therefore Gears took a chance when their comm. unit started trilling and left Huffer to himself while he answered it, shifting back slightly when he saw the caller.

“Montage? Why are you calling?” _Smooth, Gears, very smooth and approachable,_ he chastised himself, adding hastily, “I mean, is everything alright?”

“Hey, Gears,” Rusty’s pace-leader returned with a smile. “Just the mech I wanted to see. I wanted to thank you for what you did for Polevault and Rusty, being a part of their ceremony. It meant a lot to them.”

“Oh. Right.” Gears jerked a nod, pretending he had remembered the ceremony in the most recent mayhem. “It was…nice to be asked to do it. And, uh, how are you doing?”

Montage’s smile faded, so he stuck a rust stick in it to compensate as he admitted, “Just last night, Rusty left with Polevault to go on their post-bonding vacation and Spar, if you recall, was whisked off by the Augmenters for some classified mission. I miss them more than I care to say.”

“I guess you would,” Gears remarked, earning a raised brow and an added rust stick which informed him he sounded too judgmental. He needed to _sympathize_ somehow. “I know what it’s like for a pace to be…missing a member or two,” he managed, drumming his fingers lightly on the edge of the comm. monitor and thinking rather resentfully of Brawn, still conspicuously missing. “But enough about that; it doesn’t last forever. How are your _other_ pace-mates?”

Montage talked at him for about a breem before Gears hung up and rejoined Huffer, who had silently started playing with the empty energon cubes, stacking and unstacking them. Gears watched dubiously, wondering just how troubled Huffer was about the incident earlier. For all the time he had been sitting on the couch, he still hadn’t sat back and actually started relaxing.

“It doesn’t last forever, I said,” Gears broke the silence, sitting in the chair across from him. “You should remember that. It’s good advice.”

“Nothing lasts forever, does it?” Huffer mumbled cryptically, not quite looking at him. Gears’ thoughts tried to shift where Huffer’s had undoubtedly gone: to Beeper and how short a time they had been given with him, but he refused to go down that road; he knew he wouldn’t be able to bear it. He would never mention that to Huffer, though, so he simply scoffed and shook his helm at him as though the notion and the words were ridiculous.

Before either of them could say anything more, there was a beep signaling that the front door was being unlocked. The One and the **sequein** perked up, sure that it could only be one mech. Sure enough—

“Brawn!” Huffer exclaimed, leaping to his feet but making no move toward their leader, just in case Brawn wasn’t ready for a hearty welcome back. On the contrary, Brawn closed the distance, hugging his One firmly. He kept it up for several kliks and Gears noted Huffer relaxed slightly into it, the tension from earlier gradually draining out of him. The change didn’t matter much, however, as Brawn pulled back and his right hand found the medical gel layered on Huffer’s arm.

“What’s this?” he questioned as greeting, patting the area and peering at it closely. Huffer dodged the touch, earning narrowed optics. “What happened?”

“There was a little riot,” Gears called, nonchalant. Huffer was obviously hesitant to share, but Gears would be glad to in his stead; it meant they would get to his preferred topic all the quicker. “I guess you could call it a spat.”

“A _spat?_ ” Huffer echoed incredulously. “It was a—a—they were about to tear pieces off each other! They—” He shut that sentence down suddenly, shuttering his optics for a few kliks before focusing on Brawn and reluctantly reporting, “Cliff and Charger had a scrap, much worse than usual. When they started priming their augmentations, I tried to stop it, but they both just dismissed me and Cliff flung some of his glass gas at me.”

“He did what? _They_ did what?” Brawn spat, whirling around wildly in search of the guilty pair. “Where are they?!”

“That doesn’t matter,” Gears announced, surprising them. “Y’know what does? It matters that a certain someone—oh, yeah, _you_ —weren’t here to stop it.” At Brawn’s bewildered silence, Gears rose to his feet, folding his arms skeptically. “I’ve never known you to run from a fight, at least not when it mattered to you. So…what, did it not matter to you this time?”

“Gears!” Huffer hissed in disbelief.

“You think if I had known it would happen, I would’ve _let_ it?” Brawn asked in a warning voice.

“Oh, you didn’t just let it happen!” Gears snapped. “It was because of you! As soon as you left, Charger and ’Jumper thought, ‘Oh, hey, we don’t have any pace-leader here; let’s settle our differences! Who cares what the One says?’ That’s cos they don’t see any leader except you, Brawn, and you _left_ us.” He glanced at Huffer, persisting, “Doesn’t that bother you? Right when the whole pace—but Cliff in particular—is a little on edge, when they needs a leader’s hand on the back to push them in the right direction, the leader just walks off?! That’s wrong!”

“No, Gears, _you’re_ wrong,” Brawn growled. “You think I’m above it all and I’m not! How was I supposed to push you in the right direction when _I_ needed a push?! I went and actually did something worthwhile to get it—”

“Ohh, I get it now!” Gears drawled scathingly. “You don’t think we’re worthwhile when we’re out of sorts.”

“Well, clearly I’m still standing here talking to you!” Brawn protested indignantly, throwing up his hands.

A small corner of Gears’ mind realized that Brawn had a point there, but the larger, more irrational area was presently in charge. “Well, explain to me, then, what or who you put above us!” he barked, rushing on before Brawn could answer. “You could’ve asked _us_ to help you! D’you recognize the One standing next to you? He’s always ready for a little commiserating, but you didn’t go to him! You weren’t with him when he was hurt, and why?! Cos you were only thinking about yourself and what _you_ were feeling! But it’s no wonder you thought you could just up and leave when Beeper did; you were never the one he was cared about!”

Most things never rattled Brawn and Gears knew it. In fact, that was why he felt free to bring this up to him; maybe somewhere deep down, he had hoped Brawn would argue him to a standstill. This was why Gears was so unnerved when Brawn took half a step back, his hurt at the words all too blatant. Assured now that he had the last word, Gears ex-vented tersely, followed his leader’s example and promptly left.

For a while, Gears wasn’t exactly sure of his destination, until he realized he was feeling just heated and reckless enough to try something he hadn’t since his first diun after receiving the circuit card. Briefly he traced the seams of his chest plate. Behind them, he could feel the card integrated into his systems, sending out pulses of coding to regulate his off-kilter spark. _Too bad it isn’t sentient so it could talk me out of this._ Huffing, he dropped his hand and set off. He was in the mood to fall back on old habits and there was nothing the circuit card could do to dissuade him.

When he reached his destination, Gears laid a hand on one of the doors, feeling the vibrations behind it for a few kliks. He had learned several vorns ago that Windcharger had been tasked with destroying this place…Now, he was glad Charger hadn’t quite finished the job and it had been rebuilt. A quiet, bitter laugh escaped him as he opened the doors of the Topper and went inside.

It was just as he remembered: strobe lights on the walls and ceiling, droning datatrax, and several NET patients scattered throughout. None of the current tenants were ones he recognized, so at least there wasn’t a chance any of them would get curious about him. Surreally Gears realized with some shock as he sat down that he still felt…comfortable here. It probably would have been different if any of his old neighbors—or worse, his old “carers”—were present.

This was more dangerous than he cared to admit, but if Brawn could leave under the excuse of doing something “worthwhile,” surely a drink could be put under that category for Gears.

“Excuse me, are you lost?” a familiar voice made the **sequein** stiffen. “Or are you just _insane?_ ” Gears opted for scowling disapprovingly as the owner of the voice slid into the booth across from him, leaning forward on the tabletop and hissing, “I thought former NET patients weren’t supposed to frequent institutions that are a mere sidestep away from being in Alchemist!”

“Then you’re probably lost too, Twincharge,” Gears countered, hoping he didn’t sound as sullen as he did mentally. “You’re here a lot more often than I am, if what Windcharger told me is true. You’re still trying to help these bots?” He made a vague gesture at the other tables.

“Well, I never said I wasn’t insane,” Twincharge quipped. Gears simply lifted a brow, so the other mech shrugged. “Windcharger’s not wrong. How’s the pace life treating him and the rest of you? Happy belated **fratersarien** , by the way—but I’ll admit, I always questioned the merits of that **quanidre**. A grocer?”

“An Epistemus mech, creation of a former Councilmech,” Gears retorted automatically before blinking a few times, belatedly taken aback. “Wait…you’ve—”

“You’re a former customer, not just of NET but of me,” Twincharge reminded him, lightly tapping Gears’ chest and not objecting when his hand was swatted away. “I keep an optic on my Recalibrates, make sure NET doesn’t try to track them down again and undo all of my hard work.”

“Recalibrates, huh?” Gears echoed skeptically. “Sweet.”

“If NET can have Project names, so can I,” Twincharge pointed out.

“That’s fine, so long as you know that if you mention ‘Projects’ again, I’ll break off a finger,” Gears grumbled.

Twincharge chuckled, lifting his hands placatingly. “Alright, that’s a deal. But you never answered me, how’s the pace life treating you?”

For a nanoklik Gears considered dodging the prompt, but who else was there to talk to about it? Grudgingly he relented. “We’ve been having a few problems.” He went on to explain about Cliffjumper and Windcharger’s wrangle, his own with Brawn afterward, and before he could decide against it, he was venting about Beeper too.

When Gears had finished, Twincharge mulled over the stream of information, tilted his helm and remarked thoughtfully, “I could abduct him and bring him back to you.”

“Wh-What?!” Gears sputtered. “You would— _No_ , Twincharge, don’t you dare!”

“Oh, I should’ve expected you to have no sense of humor after all of that,” Twincharge complained, making a dismissive gesture. “It was a joke, Gears. I would never put myself out in the open like that; can you imagine how bad it would be for business if I got caught?”

“Or if I reported you?” Gears put in, the threat thinly veiled. Seeming unbothered by this, Twincharge leaned back in his seat, and Gears felt the need to backtrack. “So…uh, you know what I’ve been doing. How’s _your_ work?”

“Well…my most recent Recalibrate hasn’t been recalibrated at all,” Twincharge sighed, folding his hands and resting his chin on them. “We established contact about a vorn ago and he still won’t let me set up a meet for me to give him a circuit card. Typhoon won’t even put me on _visual_ communications—”

“Typhoon?” Gears echoed in disbelief. “The Typhoon I know?”

“Yeah, that one. He speaks highly of you and your pace-mates, in fact; he said the ‘big pace-mate’, probably your leader, was partly the reason why he’s not in NET anymore.” Gears said nothing to that and Twincharge detected the cue, continuing, “But my top priority is what’s been happening in Logos.”

“Really? I had a friend who said his pace-mate was on a classified mission…”

“Well, there’s a lot of that going around right now. Mechs are being tracked down by the Augmenters and trained in how they would use those augmentations in _battle_ ,” Twincharge stressed. “Logos may be Culumex’s military stronghold, but these augmentations are—ah, let’s say _modest_. They wouldn’t be drafted into military training unless the Augmenters thought they didn’t have any other choice. If that wasn’t suspect enough, the trainees never get drafted into the military. They’re upgrading these citizens as if they’re reserve troops for a war! Of course, it makes sense, given that Logos is hearing all of the rumblings from Prima.”

“What’s happening in Prima?” Gears asked, feeling rather far behind.

“The caste system is being debated.”

Gears stared at Twincharge blankly, shaking his helm minutely before pressing impatiently, “What’s wrong with caste? Paces themselves are built by caste, in a way. So what?”

Twincharge gave him an odd look before planting his folded hands on the table. “Alright, let me put it to you like this: let’s say your **trilitare** cuts his hand on that instrument he seems so fond of playing on the street. It’s minor by medical standards, but his self-repair systems need a little bit of help taking care of it, so he goes to the hospital to get it welded. At the same time, your pace-leader is rushed to the same hospital for a spark flux.”

“Why are you using them as an example?” Gears asked, defensive even to his own audials.

“Because that’s what will make you understand,” Twincharge answered simply. “In this scenario, Brawn’s the patient who needs faster help, right?”

“Obviously! Spark fluxes can kill Culumexians!”

“But he’s from Onyx, while Windcharger is from Solus. It doesn’t matter that he’s moved to Epistemus or that he’s got a criminal record; in this caste system, he is and _always_ will be prioritized over Brawn, no matter how bad the injuries and the outcome are for that poor Onyx pace-leader.”

Gears felt some of his plating bristle at the tone Twincharge was using but worked carefully to smooth it down, hoping his longtime ally hadn’t noticed.

“And that femme who you say abandoned her sparkling?” Twincharge went on. “If she’s a higher caste than Brawn and they were in the same hospital waiting room, they’d put her over him too.”

“Don’t go there,” Gears warned through clenched teeth.

“I don’t have to,” Twincharge reminded him solemnly. “Because you may not have noticed it, but they’ve _already_ gone there.”

“I…I have to go,” Gears claimed suddenly, scrambling to his feet. Twincharge nodded understandingly and stood as well.

“I hope I won’t see you here again any time soon,” he commented lowly. “Not only is it a sidestep from Alchemist…Solus is on the other side.”

Gears glared at him briefly before hastily leaving the Topper; he didn’t like the feeling Twincharge had instilled in him, a sensation of being pinned down on enemy lines. He had never been in such a dire situation as that, but he suspected this was what it might feel like.

 _And my augmentation is…modest,_ he realized, staring down at his feet and visualizing the thrusters he could feel housed in them. Somehow that made him feel no better.

The first thing he planned on doing when he got home was apologizing to Brawn. “I get why you had to leave, to clear your processors,” he would say. “Now I think I’m clearer too. I get everything now.”

But was that entirely a good thing?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, Gears. No, it is not.  
> *deep breath*  
> Weeelll, I suspect you all knew this had to be brought up sometime, right? Doesn't mean any of us have to be happy about it :/


	18. Chapter 18

Though he could hear muffled words between Brawn and Huffer in the lounge, Windcharger hadn’t dared peek out to see if or when Brawn was coming to see him and Cliffjumper. The two of them were secluded in the spare room and had been for most of the afternoon, Windcharger walking its lengths, Cliffjumper sitting cross-legged on the berth, fiddling with the rumpled thermal tarp. Despite the several joors they had been in here together, they’d spoken as little as possible. Occasionally Cliffjumper would try asking him a question.

“How mad d’you think he’s going t’be?” he had asked just a few minutes ago. His voice was low, but Windcharger could distinctly hear the nervousness. Right now, it was the only thing they shared.

“Well, from Brawn’s point of view, all he’s going to see is that Huffer got hurt and there’s a huge hole in the kitchen wall,” Windcharger replied. “How mad do _you_ think he’s going to be?”

“Way to make me feel better.”

“I didn’t know that’s what you wanted. If I had, I could’ve held your hand and told you everything’s going to be alright.” Windcharger was vaguely surprised when Cliff didn’t even react to the jab; usually after one of their arguments he was fired up and ready to start another one. This time he had just slumped against the wall, sullenly folding his arms.

Maybe Cliffjumper’s lack of fire had to do with what they had heard of Gears’ argument with Brawn earlier. They had heard Beeper come up, something to do with “who he was attached to”, and Cliff had gotten quiet. Windcharger considered it again, glancing at his companion.

“So why do you think bringing Beeper here was a mistake?” he asked bluntly. Cliffjumper gave him a sidelong look for a few kliks before shrugging wordlessly. “No, really. He was closest to you and Gears and you seemed pretty happy about it. Now you’re saying it was a mistake—”

“What was the point of him being here and gettin’ close with him if we knew the whole time it was never going to last?” Cliff cut in. “All it did was give him some idea of a family and then tear it away from him in the end.”

Windcharger was taken aback by this point of view; he hadn’t even thought of it that way. “Well…you could’ve just told me that instead of going off on me. But the agency asked us to take care of him for two quintuns and _that_ wasn’t my fault!” he protested. “How could we say no to that? He’s just a sparkling!”

“I guess we all know you’re too soft to stand that,” Cliffjumper muttered.

“And you’re not?” Windcharger countered in disbelief. “How could you—?”

“Just don’t!” Cliff finally snapped. “I’m _not_ you and I’ll _never_ be you. Just cos we have different ways of doing things doesn’t mean you get to judge me for it.”

“Right back at you,” Windcharger retorted. Cliff blinked, seeming surprised at that, and Windcharger glowered further. “How do you think I’ve felt all this time, with you criticizing everything I do? I’ve never claimed to be better than you at anything!”

“Except _living_ ,” the red mech growled. “After all, I’m ‘barely an Epistemus mech, just a stupid, crazy grocer’ from a pair of creators who can’t survive Solus just because they’re paceless! I can hear you judging even when you don’t say it.”

“Say what? I can’t remember anything I’ve ever said to you that was judgmental! You’re always the one overreacting!”

“Yeah? Well, I wouldn’t have anything to react to if you didn’t judge me! I know what you’re thinking when you talk to me, Charger: because you’ve chosen your little way of life, you assume everyone, including me, should be just like you.”

“That’s not true at all and you know it,” Windcharger cried incredulously. “Are you saying that because you don’t think I deserve what I have after I…after what I did to the Archive?”

Cliffjumper stared at him for a long minute before scoffing lightly. “Whether or not I think you deserve it doesn’t matter, does it? You have it. No, the problem is that you don’t think _I_ deserve what I have. You try to take it from me by _patronizing_ it!”

“ _What?!_ ” Windcharger gasped. “I haven’t tried to take anything from you!”

“Oh, that’s a load of scrap! Let’s see, who am I?” Ticking off fingers, Cliff recited, “Hello, I’m Cliffjumper, creation of Skydive and Overbright, who I love more than anything; I live in Epistemus, but I work in Nexus. Now let’s see what you’ve taken from me. Under the guise of protectin’ Bee, you took my name and waltzed around using it! You had other options; you could’ve just said I wasn’t home, that you were a pace-mate of mine. You could’ve made up a random name for yourself! Instead you took _my_ name and used it in your lie!

“You try to take away the honor of my creators; you judge them for wanting to live in Solus, for leaving me behind, for how they raised me, for not having a pace! Well, they make their own choices and so do I! I _choose_ to work in Nexus cos it’s what I know and cos it puts me closer to the rest of the pace, but you try to take away my self-respect by mocking that too.

“But hey, maybe you’ve had the right to do that cos of _your_ class. You had your nice Solus lifestyle with your Solus creators and their Solus pace! You do everyone favors and give ’em great advice! The thing is, Charger, you just don’t understand that some of us might see your great advice as _judgmental_. You’re stickin’ your mouth where it doesn’t belong and I never asked for it.”

“Well, if you really feel that way, why haven’t you just asked me to stop?!” Windcharger demanded. Cliffjumper remained silent and Windcharger planted his hands on his hips, pleased to have found the flaw in his argument. “Oh, you never thought of that? You were so busy judging me for judging you that you never just put aside your fraggin’ pride and told me how you felt.”

“Like it’s as easy as that. Look me in the optics, Charger, and tell me you wouldn’t think I was just ‘overreacting’ again.”

Windcharger didn’t get the chance to answer, as they heard the muffled trill of the front door and Gears’ voice; he’d returned. Windcharger tilted his helm, listening tensely to what almost sounded like an apologetic note in the **sequein’s** voice—apologetic for Gears, at least. Brawn sounded curt with him but not unkind, clearly determined to move on from what had happened between them. Then Windcharger heard his own name and grimaced.

“He’s asking Gears for his point of view on what happened between us.”

“That’s just wonderful,” Cliffjumper grumbled. “He’ll be sure to include every detail we don’t want him to.”

“I guess you shouldn’t have supplied him with so many details, then!”

“Don’t try to pin it all on me, Charger, it was _both_ of us.”

“You’ve got that right.”

Brawn’s voice caused them both to jerk around and see that the door had slid open to accommodate their pace-leader. How much or how little he had heard, neither of them knew, but his dark features warned them to take care regardless. Cliffjumper sat up a bit straighter, unfolding his arms, and Windcharger slowly closed his mouth and took a few steps back. Stepping further in and locking the door behind him, Brawn looked between them, brooding.

“Y’know,” he began after a few kliks, his tone unreadable, “usually we can just talk out whatever issues we have before they come to something like this, but clearly you couldn’t bring yourselves to do that for this. I wonder why.” When neither of them dared answer, he went on, “I trust Huffer and Gears, but what they told me was so slagged up, I had to find out from you two. Of all things, they say you drew your _augmentations_ on each other! ‘I know they have their differences,’ I thought, ‘but I just can’t believe they would go so low as that. I’ll clear this up with them and of course they’ll tell me they would _never_ do such a thing.’ Isn’t that right?”

The last three words were spoken in a soft, ominous growl, and Windcharger swallowed hard, ashamed to find he was glancing at Cliffjumper for backup, of all things. Cliff didn’t meet his gaze, keeping it locked on Brawn. Finally the **quanidre** spoke gingerly, barely audible.

“B-Brawn…Huffer’s arm…was an accident. It was an accident, but it _was_ my fault, and I’m sorry—”

“Oh, I’m fully aware of that, Cliffjumper!” Brawn barked, causing the red mech to flinch. “I have optics; do you think I’m _blind?_ I saw the kind of burns only glass gas can leave and it doesn’t matter if you’re sorry, because if you hadn’t drawn your augmentation in the first place, it never would have happened! What I want to know is who did it first!” When they shared a startled glance, he spat, “Don’t look at each other; look at _me!_ Who was armed first?! _Tell me!_ ”

“I was!” Windcharger burst out fearfully, spark pulsing hard as he took a few more steps back to find a healthy distance. “I—I threatened him first.”

Brawn seemed to unwind at that, but only by an inch or two. “So Huffer wouldn’t have been hurt if Cliff hadn’t been armed, and he might not have been armed if _you_ hadn’t been,” he snapped. Windcharger’s knees felt weak at the words, but he squared his shoulders as much as he could in his shame and nodded, and Brawn ex-vented harshly, moving forward and making a sharp gesture for Cliffjumper to stand.

Once he and Windcharger were side by side, Brawn slowly leaned into their faces, optics lit with an unnerving spark of menace. “I thought I could trust you enough that I would never have to say this, but now that you’ve forced me to, I’m going to say it just _once_. In my pace, you never, by any means, for any reason, under any circumstances, _ever_ turn augmentations or other weapons on each other. My first pace Unraveled because of it and I will go to _any lengths necessary_ to make sure it doesn’t happen a second time. Am I making myself absolutely clear?”

“Yes,” Windcharger whispered, in unison with Cliff. Brawn leaned back, studying them coolly.

“Now as for your consequences… You’ve lost your inessential fuels and your high-grade; there’s clearly no reason to impair your senses any more than they are!” Pinning down Cliffjumper with narrowed optics, he added, “Rest assured that if you go behind my back and have any at work, I’ll know. You won’t like what happens if you try it.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Cliffjumper murmured. Despite the sarcasm the words could hold, Windcharger knew he was completely genuine and fortunately, Brawn knew it too. He jerked a short nod and continued.

“If you’re spending all of your free time fighting, clearly you have too much free time. You need some added responsibilities. I don’t think I need to remind you, Cliffjumper, that you injured my One. I don’t take that _lightly_. You’re going to repair the hole in the wall and Windcharger is going to supply you with what you need to do it. The two of you will learn to work together by the time you’re through, because you’re going to take duties from the rest of us— _all_ of them! You can do the grocery shopping and the disposing after we refuel. You’re going to clean the house, the roof court, and the facilities three times every quintun.”

Baring his teeth in an unsettling smile, he added, “You’re going to do all of it under _Huffer’s_ supervision. If he makes you clean everything all over again because he thinks you were slacking, maybe you’ll learn some respect for his authority! You’re going to treat him with the same respect you would treat me. If you give him slag for any of it, he’s got my permission to add _more_ consequences. Last but not least, you don’t use your augmentations at home without asking me. You’re free to use your abilities anywhere else, but I don't want to hear that you’ve done it in this house again without my approval. Don’t ask me how long all of this is going to last or I’ll take it as a request to make it longer by _several_ diuns. If I’m pushed to go that far, trusting you will take even longer.” With one last warning glance, Brawn pivoted and strode out.

Ex-venting slowly, Windcharger slumped against the nearest wall. Cliffjumper fumbled his way back to the berth, sinking onto the edge as if he were in a daze.

“I half-expected him to medically nullify our augmentations from the start,” he mumbled.

“Don’t tempt fate,” Windcharger sighed. After a minute or two of silence, he pushed off the wall and ran a hand down his face. “Now I need to go out and do my community service, on top of everything else.”

“Look on the bright side: at least you can use your augmentation while you do it,” Cliff pointed out. Windcharger said nothing to that, steeling himself for a nanoklik before bursting out of the room and striding quickly to the front door, pointedly avoiding optic contact with the pace-mates sitting in the lounge. He would apologize to Huffer and Gears, but not until he felt like he could show his face around them.

The consequences were what he and Cliff deserved, he mused sadly as he worked on cleaning some of the disposal chutes by the fading sunlight. How could they have been so stupid? Cliff’s words to him before Brawn came in the berthroom were staying fresh in his mind, making him doubt himself. As far as he knew, he wasn’t a judgmental mech! But as far as he knew, Cliffjumper could just have some reasons for thinking what he did. He paused upon reaching the place where he had found Beeper, thinking back to how upset the mechling had been when he had been taken away.

Was it his fault Beeper had gotten attached so quickly? _No, of course not!_ But if he hadn’t taken him to the house and had taken him to a sparkling agency instead, from the very beginning…

“Hey, Winder! How’s Beeper?” Genre’s voice made him jump. When he turned, Genre’s optics brightened with curiosity upon seeing the waste and oil on his hands. “What’re you doing?”

“I’m just cleaning up a little.”

“Cleaning the trash chute? Why?”

Self-conscious, Windcharger hid his hands behind his back and shifted so he blocked the disposal chute from view. “Let’s just say I got in trouble. I don’t really feel like I should be at home right now, but maybe you should. It’s going to be dark soon.”

Missing the cue, Genre shuffled slightly closer. “Why can’t you be at home?”

“Well…like I said, I got in trouble. I had a really bad fight with one of my pace-mates and my pace-leader had to punish us.” Genre’s optics were very wide and Windcharger sighed, folding his arms. “My pace-mate thought I was making fun of him when I actually didn’t mean to.”

“So…why don’t you say you’re sorry?” Genre asked. “That’s what my carrier says we should do after fighting.”

“It’s not that simple, Genre.”

“It seems that simple,” Genre protested, leaning out and patting his closest arm reassuringly. “Maybe if you said you were sorry and you didn’t know he thought you were teasing, he’d stop thinking you meant to.”

 _From the mouths of sparklings,_ Windcharger mused incredulously, lowering his optics to the ground for a brief moment before slowly nodding. “Maybe. I’ll have to try it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Genre, guys. Sometimes in my head he's like Linus from The Peanuts, this shy boy giving away pearls of wisdom <3


	19. Chapter 19

_Windcharger still doesn’t get it,_ Cliffjumper mused angrily as he shoved a package across the counter at his work. _I explained all of my problems with him like I would to a sparkling and he still doesn’t get it! He still acts like I’m the only one at fault here! Typical of him…_

It wasn’t that Cliff couldn’t appreciate where he was coming from, but what he didn’t appreciate was that Brawn had interrupted their discussion in the spare berthroom, so he’d never found out how Windcharger would answer his challenge. Cliffjumper had asked him whether or not he would just think he was overreacting again if he asked him to stop judging, but Charger had never gotten the chance to give him a response.

What happened afterward between them and Brawn…frankly Cliffjumper knew that they—that _he_ —had gotten off easily. Fixing a wall and cleaning the house was a small price to pay for injuring their One. Underneath his roiling bitterness, Cliff felt a pang of guilt at the thought.

Since it had happened, he had been struggling with the almost sickening realization that he had legitimately injured Huffer. Cliffjumper was a fighting mech, a mech who would punch a pace-mate out of anger. In fact, he had swung at each of them at least once, but fortunately he usually missed and whenever he struck, they bounced back easily from it.

Glass gas was different, known for cracking the plating underneath—in a worst case scenario, the plating would shatter and break away completely. Truthfully, Cliffjumper considered it a miracle that Huffer hadn’t snapped his arm when he’d punched the wall.

Hurting him was an accident made out of simple defensiveness, but he could still hear one of his sparklinghood teachers giving lessons on the dynamics of a pace and what a mech could and couldn’t do. He was fairly sure hurting a pace-mate was on the list of things a mech should avoid. Even so, he’d been just as willing to do it to Windcharger as he had so _un_ willingly done it to Huffer. Was there a difference?

 _Of course there is,_ the grocer assured himself, feeling no reassurance for it. _Huffer’s not infuriating me nearly as often and he’s the One! It’s all a matter of who’s who and what’s what. The truth is that Windcharger just isn’t…_

He didn’t finish that thought. There were ranks in a pace, of course, but the idea that he could _value_ one over another was startling.

“Excuse me,” the young femme across the counter called, wiggling her fingers to catch his attention and giving him an overly bright smile. Cliffjumper managed a pained approximation in return and took her items. They stood in silence for a minute or two before she questioned abruptly, “Sir, do you think you could get me a discount?”

“No,” Cliff shrugged, wishing he could muster up some sympathy and finding himself completely disinclined. “We can only do that for damaged merchandise.”

“Well, could you please damage it?” she countered cheerfully. Cliffjumper stared at her, waiting for her to laugh or give some kind of indication that it was a joke, but she just kept smiling fixedly, expectantly.

“No,” he deadpanned again. “No, I can’t.” She seemed unsure of what to say to that, so he added, expression unchanging, “Do you still want it, undamaged as it is? I’m _positively_ sure that it would be more of a hassle to repair it than it would be to buy it as is. What do you think?”

“I think I’ll look for it where it’s cheaper, but thanks for the offer,” she replied, wandering off. Cliffjumper pressed two fingers against his optics, massaging them vainly to alleviate his helm-ache. A spark of disbelieving anger kindled as he went over the conversation he’d just been treated to. What kind of glitched world did he live in, when a customer thought they could demand he damage merchandise for them?

“Hey,” the next one caught his attention, pushing his items across to him. “I want these.”

“Oh, do you? I figure that’s why you would bring them to me for tallying,” Cliff grumbled, just loud enough to be heard. The mech frowned but otherwise didn’t react, so Cliff was left unsatisfied, simmering wordlessly.

 _These idiots think they own the world! I swear, if this mech does something remotely irritating, I’m going to blow a circuit board!_ It would only get him into trouble, but it was the thought that comforted him. He gave the amount and the mech nodded, fishing out his payment and planting it in Cliffjumper’s outstretched palm, looking quite pleased with himself.

Mouth slowly opening, Cliffjumper stared at what he held in his hand. It was a cheap tin credit stick cartridge, missing its back entirely. Dumbfounded, he glanced between it and the customer.

“It’s real,” the mech insisted in answer to his unasked question. “And it’s still got some credits on it, so I’ll need it back once you scan it.”

Cliffjumper clenched his teeth, leaned across the counter and inquired, “What is it, huh? Is it me or is it you? I always attract the Pit-fragged _glitches!_ ” With that he slammed the cartridge down on the counter so hard that it ricocheted off and hit the ground by his left foot. “Sir, get the frag away from my stall!”

“Well!” the customer scoffed. “I expected better service from a mech who relies on local business! Frag you!”

If asked, Cliffjumper would have admitted that surprised him, but only for a nanoklik. “Excuse me?”

“Process my fragging payment!” the mech commanded, picking up the cartridge and setting it on the counter with nearly as much force as Cliff had. “Process my payment or I’m gonna find you after work and slag you up!”

“What, are you not mech enough to try it here and now?”

“I’m waiting to see what you do!” the customer retorted. “Are you gonna process my payment or are we gonna have a problem?!”

“I already have a problem. I’m known for being the most unstable mech in this marketplace and in my pace, but my pace-leader said I can still use my augmentation anywhere that’s outside the house! Work is outside the house, so swing first, I’m beggin’ you, and I’ll have just cause!”

The mech took several quick steps back, finally scurrying away when Cliffjumper made a vaguely threatening flap of the hands at him. Disgusted, the grocer leaned back against the stool he was supplied with, which he rarely used. “Streakin’ Pit-fraggers. They think they own the world and they can’t even back it up! He wouldn’t last a breem if he was put in charge of something,” he muttered, brushing the credit cartridge onto the ground where he didn’t have to look at it.

When his work orn was finished and he was on his way home, some of his own words came back to him: was it them or was it him? Why did it have to be him? What had he ever done to deserve so many bots harassing him at work and at home? Cliff grumbled some more choice words, clenching his fists and then stopping up short as he felt a chill seep through his fingertips. He unclenched his hands, studying them closely as his glass gas glazed a thin layer over them.

When he’d first chosen his augmentation, his creators had been…surprised, to say the least, but he’d had an affinity for it in the medics’ standard tests and Cliffjumper had told his creators that he was sure he was made for it, and it for him. He was still rather young, so Skydive had told him firmly that they would have to explore _what_ it was made for. Cliff had known that would mean rules and had gotten mad about it, so he had used it whenever his creators weren’t looking, embrittling whatever household item had caught his young and rebellious optics.

One orn, it had been the railing to the cybre-glass staircase and the next thing Cliff knew, his carrier was on her way to the hospital. Her injuries from the fall had been minor and she’d been pretty forgiving after he’d apologized every few joors. Skydive hadn’t been as kind and Cliffjumper had promised him he wouldn’t use it to hurt anyone again.

Odd…When had he forgotten that? Sighing crossly, he blasted one of the tall orb lamps on the side of the street, causing it to sputter, and picked up some speed.

He found the living room empty when he reached home, no one there to greet him. They must have sequestered themselves in their rooms, given how uncomfortable it was to look at each other. Cliff didn’t blame them, but he didn’t like the silence either; it was much too reminiscent of when Hypervolt had fled and Cliff was in this large house on his own. The pace would cool off soon, Cliffjumper hoped. He wouldn’t mind things getting back to normal.

“Mechs like us do best when we stick together,” Windcharger had once said. “If we can’t accept someone who’s been where we are, why should we expect that of people who haven’t?”

“Mechs like us,” Cliffjumper echoed aloud, shaking his helm. He and Windcharger weren’t nearly as similar as either of them had thought. Brooding on this, he started toward the kitchen, wondering if Gears had left anything safe from his binge, only to curse as he recalled that he wasn’t allowed to have any.

He needed _some_ kind of distraction and since he had the living room—and thereby the comm. unit—he may as well talk to someone who wasn’t angry at him, ignoring him, or hurt because of him. When he tried giving his creators a call, it trilled the code that they had set up in order to tell him they weren’t available. He wasn’t in the mood to talk with Rusty’s pace; he wasn’t close with them and who knew if Brawn had already called there to vent about him? If he had, whoever answered would probably try prying into his business. Cliff could see Feedback doing that and the very idea annoyed him.

Who was left who would like or love him, no matter what?

It wasn’t long before Cliffjumper was rummaging around the shelves of the living room, looking for a specific data pad. When he found what he was looking for, he was forced to scan through several pages of introductions, specifications and disclaimers before reaching the number. He stared at it, wondering if he really should go through the trouble of bringing himself to call.

 _He’s already gone. Why can’t I just let go easily? It was a—a clean break._ The thought pained him enough that it had the opposite effect of whatever he was going for. He dialed, waiting tensely.

“Brighter Horizons Sparkling Care; this is Compass. How can I help—?”

“Hey, I need to speak to one of your agents,” Cliffjumper cut the clerk off. “Interim. It’s about a sparkling my pace and I took care of for about two quintuns; he was just taken by a **sponsire** an orn or so ago. Tell her it’s Cliffjumper askin’.” Why did he feel so nervous? He should be proud to use his own name, but Huffer’s predictions about being found out were ringing in his mind.

“Alright, sir, let me see if Interim is available,” Compass replied good-naturedly. Cliffjumper pressed his mouth into a thin, impatient line as he listened to the very slow typing on the other side of the comm. There was a long pause, a trill that signaled a redirection, and then Interim greeted him, much to his relief.

“Cliffjumper? Good afternoon; how can I help you?”

“I just…” Cliff hesitated, cleared his throat and then ex-vented. What he was hoping to get out of this call, he didn’t know. “I just wanted to check up on Beeper. You said we could do that and I want to know if he’s…adjusting well.” Briefly he wondered if Interim would notice that “Cliffjumper’s” voice had changed, but he hoped she would just assume it was a bad filter connection.

“I’m sure he’ll adjust just fine,” Interim assured him tersely. “We’re going to make sure he has a nice place to stay as he recovers and go from there; from the sparkling’s perspective, it’s a simple process of—”

“Wait, what?” Cliff cut in, blinking in surprise. “You said he’ll _recover?_ Recover from what, being taken from us?”

Interim’s following laugh was clipped. “When we took him, I assured you that he was going to adjust and I’m still absolutely sure that if he gets the chance, he’ll bond well with a **sponsire** we appoint to him.”

“What are you talking about?” Cliffjumper demanded, his tone made harsh out of his mounting dread. “What do you mean, ‘if he gets the chance’?”

“Oh. You weren’t aware, were you?” Interim muttered rhetorically. “I apologize. The sparkling has been admitted into White Wing General for—”

“The hospital?!” Cliff yelped, clutching the sides of the table. “What—what did those fraggers do to him?! I knew we shouldn’t have trusted them with Bee! Who were they really? Were they ever certified? Did you check?!”

“Nothing’s been _done_ to him!” Interim cried incredulously. “Calm down, sir, and I’ll explain!” Cliff couldn’t calm down, but his throat suddenly wouldn’t form any more words and she took his silence as a prompt. “The sparkling you call Beeper is in White Wing General because of his spark. Before you ask, nothing is wrong with it! He’s being prepared for a transfer into his second frame; his spark has outgrown his first one.”

Several things raced through Cliffjumper’s mind in sync: the relief that it was a natural occurrence, the guilt that he hadn’t called and found out sooner, and the fear that the weakness of Beeper’s first, malnourished frame and spark could make something go very, very wrong. He managed to speak out of the fear. “Is anyone there for him? His **sponsire**?” he questioned in a low voice, almost a whisper.

“Reset and Journey said they’ll do their best to come soon, but they couldn’t make any promises,” Interim admitted.

“Why not?”

“There was an unexpected development, a family emergency—”

“They’re supposed to be a family for _him!_ ” Cliffjumper snarled.

“Sir, not everyone has the freedom to drop everything for the sparkling, but since you’re calling, I suspect you’re available? If you want, you can bring your pace to White Wing General to show your support. If the sparkling is as close to you as you seem to think, it may do him some good during the operation.”

“Nowhere else I’d rather be,” Cliffjumper snapped, slamming the comm. unit down and rushing by first instinct toward Gears’ door. The two of them were Beeper’s main caretakers, his…loved ones. If Beeper was supposed to have a family, they were the closest thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for being so patient, guys, I know it's probably hard getting into a story when my chapter posting is so sporadic, but I was celebrating my birthday -- and I also got a case of writer's block as a gift! Anyway, umm, better late than never? ^^"


	20. Chapter 20

Under any other circumstances, Brawn might have been insulted that Cliffjumper had gone straight to Gears for assistance, but with all of the recent happenings, that would be his first impulse—not to mention that the news they had received affected them most directly. Brawn was just glad Gears had decided to let everyone else know where they were going; it had given the pace-leader a chance to insist that they were coming too.

As soon as they reached the hospital, Brawn and his pace made a beeline toward Interim, who stood in the waiting room.

“Where is he? Where’s his **sponsire**?” Brawn demanded. Interim turned with an expression of surprise at the authoritative tone he was using, but she answered briskly.

“He’s being prepared for the operation. As for Reset and Journey, they have been released from their duties to the sparkling,” she replied. At their speechless outrage, she explained, “The family emergency I mentioned to Cliffjumper on the comm. was Journey’s hospitalization for sudden pain. It turns out she’s carrying. The reason they became certified was that they believed she wasn’t able to, but now that she’s going to have a sparkling of her own…”

“Beeper’s just able to be dumped? Abandoned _again?_ ” Cliffjumper growled ominously. “That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?!”

Interim held up a staying hand. “Not at all. I’m already working to find another **sponsire** for him. It’s good to see that all of you are here for him though.”

“Can we see him?” Windcharger demanded, flexing and relaxing his fingers as though he planned to steal the mechling away on sight. Brawn knew it was simply because of his edginess. Beside him, Gears wasn’t much better; for good reason, the two of them were eternally skittish in hospitals, particularly this one. It held some memories that were less than fond—Cliffjumper’s visit after he was ambushed and beaten, Windcharger’s arrest, and Brawn’s back surgery, to name a few.

“Only the pace-leader or the sparkling’s creators get special privileges to watch the procedure,” Interim answered. “Until the chief surgeon comes out to tell us they’re going to begin, we can wait here.”

 _Waiting_ …Brawn had a feeling that would only make his mates’ anxious and unsettled state even worse, but he nodded and led the way to some seats. He was the only one who ended up actually sitting. Huffer preferred to fretfully walk the lengths of the room and Cliffjumper planted himself at the end of the hallway, keeping his optics open for the surgeon. Windcharger would occasionally ask Interim a question about the procedure, but there wasn’t much information she could offer.

Once nearly three joors had passed, Gears reached the peak of something not unlike panic and called the first friend he could think of to distract himself. Hightop promised to come as soon as possible to show his support. After that, Gears had tried Rusty and Polevault, but they weren’t back from their post-bonding vacation, so he had ended up talking to Montage, who was already on his way.

No sooner had Gears hung up did Cliffjumper finally spit out a vulgar phrase in Culumexian and whirl around, hollering at the nearest nurses’ station, “Can’t anyone get some _help_ around here?! We’ve been waiting to hear something for joors!”

One of the nurses hurried out to pacify him, only to falter and recoil when she saw who it was. “Oh! You’re Cliffjumper, the creation of that Councilmech! I remember I was on the team that treated you several vorns ago,” she burst out, inclining her helm and adding in a smaller voice, “You threw your crutch at my face and I—I must say I haven’t experienced a patient quite like that since. Sir.”

“I _know_ who I am!” he barked back. “I _want_ to know who the chief surgeon is! I’m here for the sparkling, the one who looks like me. If my rank is so important, tell the medic that it’s Cliffjumper who’s askin’!”

“Yes, Sir Cliffjumper,” the nurse vowed, hurrying down the hall. Cliffjumper seemed unappeased by this, spinning on his heelstrut and prowling the waiting room with Huffer. Interim, who was sitting with Brawn, glanced at Cliff questioningly as he passed and then returned her optics to her data pad. She was probably the only one in their group who seemed calm during the long wait.

“Brawn!” Montage’s voice echoed down to them. Brawn leapt to his feet and the taller pace-leader gripped his shoulders. “Anything?”

“Not a word yet,” Brawn sighed, admitting in a lower, tenser hiss, “I hate this. I—I feel _helpless_. I can’t say anything to calm my pace down and I can’t do anything to help them either!”

“Well, I’ve got your back,” Montage assured him. “One pace-leader to another.”

“Ah, I suppose you’re all waiting for the sparkling who was brought in earlier?” a femme’s voice caught their attention. Gears, who was closest to her, made a jerky summoning gesture and the rest of the pace fairly charged the surgeon, who smiled a bit hesitantly. “I’m sorry for the wait. I’m Siren, the chief surgeon. He’s ready for the procedure now, if your pace-leader would care to follow me for decontamination.”

“Sure thing,” Brawn agreed, pushing past the others and striding with her down the hallway. “Can you, uh, tell me what you’re gonna do to him?”

“Of course. We’ve already evaluated his spark Spectra and the ratio between his photonic crystal and innermost energon, so from there it’s a simple process of assessing how high his percentage of overkindling is and…”

“Never mind,” Brawn interrupted, frustrated. “If you put it that way, s’not like I’ll understand it.”

Siren paused for a klik or two. “Overkindling means the spark has outgrown its frame. We’re going to make sure the conditions are right and then we’re going to move his spark into a frame which is big enough for it.”

“Oh…alright. Thanks.” Brawn hoped the deadpan tone he was using would hide the anxiety he was feeling, but it probably failed, as Siren patted his arm reassuringly before gesturing him through the decontamination wash.

The operating room was eerily dark, Brawn noticed uneasily. It took him a minute to adjust to that and longer than that to adjust once Siren turned on the operating lights. Brawn’s vents hitched slightly when he saw the sedated sparkling. If the lighting were a little different, Brawn could almost believe he was back in the **quiendus** ’ room, watching Beeper peacefully recharge. The second, larger frame lying with its chest open on a second operating table adjacent made the fantasy impossible.

“Let’s begin,” Siren said to the nurse standing by before addressing Brawn. “I’m going to be recording some of my observations, alright?”

“Yeah,” Brawn murmured distractedly; he was in the middle of a prayer for the little one’s safety. If something went wrong…

It wouldn’t. It _couldn’t_.

Siren flipped on her recorder. “Standard frame transfer, Rescue Bot Siren reporting. Patient, Identification Number 261-9509, designation…” She paused, glancing questioningly at Brawn, who swallowed hard.

“I—he’s a **sponling** ,” he admitted. “I’ve been calling him Beeper.”

“Designation: Beeper,” Siren echoed gently. “Patient is Forge-born, approximately two centivorns of age. Standard Y6-5356 newspark frame, Malgus subtype. Transferring to frame C1186-P0019, Malgus subtype.”

“Like my **quanidre** ,” Brawn muttered, mostly to himself, though Siren did give a minute nod of affirmation before continuing.

“Spark type: G-Spectra. Overkindle rate is 64%. Unlocking now.” As she spoke, she methodically overrode the panels of the mechling’s newspark armor. The protective layer just above his spark chamber, what Siren reported was his chamber iris, was unnervingly thin, Brawn noted worriedly, but Siren seemed unconcerned by it, so perhaps it was normal in a frame so young and small and…fragile. Before he could worry about it any longer, Siren cycled the iris back and light illuminated her triumphant smile.

Brawn gaped. He’d never seen a spark like this, not in its full glory. It was golden, hazily dappling over the open armor it had outgrown. Siren could list off the spark’s layers, what they were made of, and what they did, but she may as well be speaking in Covenant runes for all he understood it. All he saw was a soul. This was a living soul and he had the privilege of peering at it— _into_ it.

His reverie was broken, however, when Siren took up a laser scalpel and started _cutting_. He jerked sharply in her direction, but before he could form any of the shocked demands that came to mind, she spoke first. “I’m cutting off the feeds to his newspark systems…”

With a soft ex-vent, she took a foreign tool Brawn couldn’t possibly name into her free hand and shuffled that into the spark chamber too. The pace-leader wasn’t known to be squeamish, but here he couldn’t bring himself to look as she eased the spark out of its host. It seemed _profane_. When he looked again, Siren was in front of the second frame and the newspark frame was dark and limp. Brawn’s throat caught at the sight and he quickly turned his back on it, studying what Siren was doing with the second frame. The golden light was still there, wispy tendrils of its corona clinging to Siren’s tools as she worked.

“So far, so good?” Brawn prompted anxiously. Siren opened her mouth to answer, only for an alarm to trill. “What was that?!”

“His spark isn’t fusing with its photonic crystal,” the medic announced tersely, as if Brawn would understand. “Nurse, bypass the crystal to the secondary systems and match the _cradle_ to the patient’s energon and Spectra stats. Hurry!”

The nurse who had been handing Siren tools swooped in, making the modifications, and Brawn took a few vain steps forward, nothing short of terror coursing through his systems. From there he could sense the sheer willpower in Siren’s EM field which kept her hands steady as she maneuvered Beeper’s spark directly into the cradle, foregoing the crystal casing. The spark flailed and spun for a few kliks, seeming almost confused about its new placement, before ever so slowly settling as Siren hooked cables into the cradle and the chamber surrounding.

“How’d you know that would work?” Brawn asked, voice low, optics wide.

“This particular frame-type is known for the resilience of its spark chamber,” Siren explained. “With any other frame, I wouldn’t have taken the risk; I would’ve scrapped the operation and put the spark back in its first frame until something could be done. That said, his spark’s temperature is a bit high. He’ll likely overheat a few times while he’s recovering; his coolant systems need time to synchronize.” For the records, she added, “Transplant successful.”

“Before you finish everything,” Brawn blurted out, “could you perform the test to see if he can be augmented? I’m just curious.”

“Of course.” Siren had probably been expecting him to ask, as the scanner and probe she needed were ready on the tray with the others. Poising the scanner, she dangled the probe over the spark and released a burst of low-grade energy from it, simulating the charge of a first-grade augmentation. The spark flinched underneath the light assault and Brawn flinched too, recalling the uncomfortable sensation of his own testing, though his had only thrashed like that when the energy pulse had been dialed to sixth-grade.

Siren’s scanner chirped and she glanced at it, confirming what Brawn already suspected. “His primary meridian is too weak…It wouldn’t be able to regulate the energy it would take to work an augmentation; it might backfire, put him at risk of a spark flux.” She looked up at Brawn just in time to see his shoulders slump slightly and set aside her tools, softening her professional tones. “But if it makes you feel any better, all of the sparks I’ve seen who are too weak to augment end up becoming some of the kindest, sweetest bots you can name, and that will impact the world just as wonderfully.”

Processing this, Brawn nodded a little, optics fixed on the clean, clear light of Beeper’s spark, and his own spark jumped as a sudden realization struck him: he wanted to watch it happen. He wanted to witness whatever Beeper would bring to the world. He wanted to see the life that small, precious soul would have—more than that, he wanted to be a part of it.

_Oh, Primus._

“How could I have missed this?” he gasped aloud, causing Siren to tilt her helm questioningly. “Primus thought of me! He brought Beeper to _me_ , of all mechs, and I thought it was a random mistake!” Single-minded in his decision, he rushed out of the operating room toward the room where his pace waited. As soon as they were in sight, he called out, “I’m taking Beeper! I’m adopting him!”

This announcement didn’t bring his pace-mates whirling around in shock as he thought it would; they did turn to stare at him, but the unease on their faces caused him to slow and falter to a stop.

“Oh, really?” Interim scoffed, pushing through his pace-mates into view and looking him up and down distastefully. “That’s not going to happen.” Brawn blinked at her for a few kliks in wordless astonishment and she huffed, gesturing toward the exit. “I suggest we move this conversation outside.”

Optics narrowing as aggression kicked in, Brawn growled, “If you have something to say, then say it right here, right now.”

“Alright,” Interim rose to the challenge, jabbing a finger at him. “Here are all of the reasons why you can’t: first off, you’re an Unraveler!” Brawn barely had time to react to that before she jabbed the same finger at Gears and Windcharger. “And this is a NET patient, and _this_ is a convicted murderer, and you lied to me about all of it! When I heard that newscaster call you ‘pace-leader’ and the nurse called this red mech ‘Cliffjumper’, I looked you all up and confronted them about it. At least they had the decency not to lie to my face _again_ , but I’m going to make sure you aren’t anywhere near that sparkling!”

“You—” Huffer clamped staying hands on Gears and Cliffjumper, who were already bristling and doubling fists, before pleading, “You can’t do that! Do you think Cliffjumper and I would be part of a pace of social outcasts if they were so terrible? Brawn was just p-part of a misunderstanding and Windcharger served his time! Gears is—”

“Gears is one of my most trusted friends,” Hightop cut in, materializing at the edge of the group, clearly having just arrived. Interim pivoted to glare at the newcomer and he met the silent accusation steadily. “He’s had a system reset and has a regulator for his spark; he’s perfectly sane and in control, I assure you. I can vouch for him and for the others…” To Brawn’s disbelief, his manager looked straight at Windcharger, narrowing his optics and finishing emphatically, “ _All_ of them.”

“So can I!” Montage boomed, looming over Interim from the other side and crunching on a rust stick before introducing himself, “Montage, better known as Roarwind—”

“The famous Nexus newscaster,” Interim finished for him, optics flickering warily. “I recognized you. Didn’t you making the breaking news report about the Archive falling?” Windcharger flinched at the jab, but Montage only withdrew another rust stick from his package.

“That I did. What does that matter? I’m talking about what’s happening here, now, and the breaking news report is that I’ll gladly give a testament of what an honorable pace Brawn has here. Just show me to a recorder.”

“Take me with you on your way,” Hightop agreed firmly.

Interim glanced between the two of them in disbelief, questioning, “You’re serious?” Upon receiving nods, she threw her shoulders back, seeming as though she might protest further, before shaking her helm slightly and glowering at Brawn. “If you even want to have a _glimmer_ of potential chance in this, you’ll need more than just these two to give character testimony. You, your **sequein** , and your **trilitare** all need to be given psychological evaluations, and it would need to happen incredibly quickly—within the span of a few orns. If any of you misstep, if you fail the evaluations, if a witness doesn’t show up for you, the sparkling goes back to a **sponsire**. Understood? Are you sure you want to even bother?”

Clearly she was hoping Brawn would say no, but he simply gave her a grim smile. “You won’t change my mind.” He maintained that statement and posture until the sparkling agent took up her data pad and stalked away and then he unwound, swallowed a few times, and shuffled slightly closer to his pace-mates. “What about you? Do _you_ want to bother?” He glanced nervously at Huffer, notorious for hating surprises. “I know I sprang it on you.”

“Oh, what could possibly go wrong?” Huffer sighed, peering in the direction of the operating room. After what seemed like a very long pause, he shrugged heavily. “But if it gets this pace back in order and not at each other’s throats, it… _he_ might just be worth whatever we have to go through. Just let me ask, do you feel it, Brawn? I mean, do you _really_ feel like it’s right, like you did for the rest of us?”

Brawn ex-vented lightly, lowering his voice. “I…I saw his spark. There was a minute there when he almost rejected the new frame. When I thought everything could go wrong, I was terrified. I thought he’d be lost—that _I_ would lose him again. Sparklings are gifts from Primus. I need to do this…not just for Bee but for Primus. He gave us a _blessing_ , Huffer, and you saw how well it worked when we pushed it away once.”

“…Alright,” Huffer acquiesced after another long silence. “It wouldn’t be any crazier than other decisions we’ve made.”

“I’m not sure if I should be offended,” Windcharger huffed.

“Don’t be, I’m pretty sure he meant me,” Cliffjumper grumbled.

“To say nothing of me,” Gears put in, slapping a hand against his chest and adding, “and _this_.”

“That includes me too,” Brawn reminded them all dryly. “As Interim so graciously pointed out. But it’s like you said, Huffer, you wouldn’t have agreed to those crazy decisions if we were so terrible. It’ll be the same with him; the medic in there said he’ll probably end up being one of the sweetest bots we know.”

“She probably jinxed him then; he'll be a Pit-spawn,” Huffer retorted, but Brawn could tell he was hiding a smile.

“Congratulations are in order, then,” Hightop mused.

“True enough!” Montage exclaimed, reaching over to shake Brawn’s hand. “You’re about to become a sire!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Medical jargon for the win!! Hightop and Montage for MVPs!! And is it weird that I want Siren to show up again? She's great! And Interim? Well, she just needs their equivalent of coffee and then she'll be professional again. XD


	21. Chapter 21

“Thank you for giving your character testimonies, Hightop,” Huffer murmured, hunching his shoulders as he stared around the blank gray waiting room of the psychiatric clinic. In a lower voice he added, “But if no one else comes for them, it might not do any good.”

“You sound like you need a distraction,” Hightop remarked from where he sat, glancing up from the customary data pad selection left to entertain. Huffer glanced at the selection with distaste; he could already tell he wouldn’t like it, and Hightop seemed to read his mind. “I didn’t mean that. I’m afraid I can’t let all of you off from the work orn and you’re the only one who isn’t needed here, so would you mind coming to the worksite and putting in a few joors? I need my chief engineer.”

“I guess not,” Huffer sighed, following his manager out into the sunlight. The cool air was nice on his vents and he paused, shuttering his optics for a minute, and swayed a little. He hadn’t gotten any recharge last night during the long hospital wait—nor this morning, when the pace was escorted to the stuffy and silent psychological clinic—but his frame was recalling the sensation from his vorns with Remix and doing its best to compensate. Even so, his optics hurt and his processors felt bogged down. With this dejected thought, he tried to jumpstart himself again and hurried after Hightop.

They walked in silence for a while, both clearly having a lot on their mind, and then Huffer glanced at Hightop uncertainly.

“Sir…I—I just wanted to say that I’m sorry we never told you…um, about our pasts,” he stammered. “Their pasts, I mean…We’ve all just been trying to move on with our lives and it’s—”

“You don’t need to explain yourself or your reasons to me, Huffer,” Hightop replied in an unreadable tone, not looking at his employee. “In point of fact, I’ve known for several vorns now.”

“What? _How?_ ”

At that incredulous demand, Hightop gave him a sidelong glance. “My brother Zephyr and I—you remember that he’s an industrial foremech as well?—we discuss our crews. Not long before you came to work for me, he mentioned an Unraveler he had found among his workers and fired. I didn’t make any connection at first, but after the Archive came down, I heard Cloudshift ranting about a curse brought on by an Unraveler in the crew. I must say, I was shocked! When I wondered who it might be, I thought back to how wary and defensive Brawn was and how anxious _you_ were around your crewmates when you first came to work for me. Even now, you have only a few friends among the crew and I knew I had found out your reasons.”

Huffer swallowed hard as the construction site came into view. “So why have you let us stay?”

“Because you do good work and you have Gears to keep you in line. I _know_ I can trust him.” Considering that, Hightop added as an afterthought, “No offense, of course.” There was another short pause and then the plating on his shoulders gradually prickled. When he spoke again, his tone had changed from unreadable to thoroughly cold. “But, Huffer, I would ask you to confirm something for me now: your **trilitare** _is_ the one who put the Archive down, correct? He flinches whenever it’s mentioned, and you mentioned that he had served time.”

Huffer was frankly surprised that he managed to keep his footing as his knees went weak at the question. “He…made a terrible, terrible mistake,” he managed. “It was an accident, Hightop, and there’s not an orn that goes by that he doesn’t grieve for it.”

“That’s something he and I have in common, then.” With that, Hightop changed the subject. “The most recent updates on the site’s activity can be found in Gears’ office; I suggest you do as much as you can while you’re here, because Sprocket, Hazard and Enigma have let their stint of being in charge go to their processors.”

“Ugh, I should’ve known they would,” Huffer groaned, launching into his duties. Hightop was right in believing work would be a good distraction; Huffer hardly thought about what was happening with his pace-mates until his internals ached for energon and he realized it was mid-afternoon.

He had spent the morning directing the demolitionists, cleaning up the messes that had been gathering unchecked in Brawn’s absence and simultaneously rebuking Sprocket, Hazard and Enigma for their carelessness which had created those messes. He had found himself warming up to Enigma these past few diuns and gave him a more lenient scolding, but the difference was only slight. He was deprived of both recharge and energy, so he was in no mood for slackers.

When he clocked out and returned to the psychological clinic, he despaired when he found that nothing had changed. None of his pace-mates had emerged from their evaluations yet, though Cliffjumper had wandered from his adjacent waiting room, if only for a minute. He and Huffer shared a pointed glance, one which communicated that Cliff was feeling just as on edge as Huffer was. He strode toward the closed door of the evaluation room, resting a hand against its frame and recalling Brawn’s last words before going in.

“Take care of them.”

Huffer had laughed nervously, quipping, “When you come out, you can tell me why you always say that.” He understood perfectly, but it was the only humor he could find in this situation. At least it had made Brawn smile a little before he was escorted in.

As he turned away from the closed door, Huffer fidgeted, impulsively turning up the only orb lamp he could find in the dim room. As soon as he did, he jumped upon finding a mech sitting in the corner. “Oh! H-Hello,” he greeted apprehensively. “I didn’t see you there.” It was for good reason that he hadn’t; the mech was plated in silver and black and though he did sport the occasional green accent, it all was thoroughly tarnished. All that had maintained its brightness were his optics, glittering keen chartreuse in a grim, scarred face.

“My apologies,” the mech said, his vocals a grating rumble. “I do my best not to stand out.”

“I can tell,” Huffer murmured, warily slinking toward a chair close enough that he could broach a conversation if he wanted to but far enough that he wouldn’t feel obligated. Somehow he felt obligated anyway; he needed _someone_ to talk to so he wouldn’t have to focus on his nerves and this was the only mech available. He was also curious.

“You’re here for Brawn?” he ventured, wishing he could have found anything else to say. Obviously he was here for Brawn or he wouldn’t have been in this waiting room.

“That’s right. I’m going to testify on his behalf and then I’m going to ask him some questions,” the stranger claimed before scoffing lightly and adding, “It’s been a long time.”

“How does he know you? I haven’t heard of you or seen you before…”

“Right back at you,” the other mech retorted bluntly, raising a brow at him skeptically.

Huffer tsked at himself in embarrassment, leaning over and gingerly extending a hand. “Sorry, I—I haven’t even introduced myself. I’m Brawn’s One.”

After a long hesitation, just when Huffer was going to withdraw the hand, the mech gave him a glimmer of a smile, faint but genuine, and clasped his hand, studying it as he did so. “Huh…you could have a vice grip if your spark was in the effort.”

“I don’t know if I should be flattered or insulted,” Huffer informed him. “I save my spark for more important things.”

“Like defending yourself?” the mech questioned in a lower voice. Bewildered, Huffer tried to pull his hand away, but the mech tightened his grip and pulled on Huffer’s arm slightly. “Are those…glass gas burns?”

A sudden rush of anger narrowed Huffer’s optics and lowered his voice to a hiss. “I’m not being _abused_. I know what that’s like and that’s not Brawn. He is a good mech—a great one, my best friend, my One as I’m his. He’s like a brother to me. If you think he’s what you’re implying, clearly you’re the wrong witness to testify on his _good character!_ ” Spitting the enunciation, he tore his hand away.

The stranger seemed unfazed by the speech. He tilted his helm, merely thoughtful. “Interesting. You come across meek, but there’s some fire in there. You remind me of Hitch. I always thought Brawn should’ve made him the One instead.” Reaching for Huffer’s hand a second time, he added, “Let’s try this again. You are?”

“Huffer, Brawn’s One.”

“Good. I’m Blowsweep, Brawn’s **trilitare**.”

Huffer stiffened, mouth opening in dumbfounded, fearful silence, and he suddenly found he couldn’t move. Blowsweep noticed and visibly darkened; he retracted his hand, folding his arms and turning his optics to the closed door. “Like I said, it’s been a long time,” he muttered in a growl. “Agents tracked me down, said something about a sparkling needing help and ordered me to come and talk to ’em about Brawn.”

“You—wh-what are you going to say?” Huffer asked, unsure if he wanted to know.

“I’m going to say it how it is,” Blowsweep snapped. “The Unraveling was Brawn’s fault.” Huffer tried to squeak a protest but was silenced by a glare as Blowsweep finished, “But he _wasn’t_ the Unraveler. That was Cardsharp. Who knows what the frag happened? Brawn may have actually attacked ’Sharp like he said, which would make the shooting self-defense, but there were a lot of things Cardsharp did beforehand that drove Brawn to that. I probably would’ve attacked him too. In fact, I plan to. Brawn might know where Cardsharp is and I want to find out. Cardsharp is an Unraveler and Unravelers, well, they need their due punishment, you understand.”

Huffer blinked rapidly at the inference, nervecircuits tingling with a fresh dose of fear. This mech had shot Brawn in the back just after Cardsharp had. Under a cursory glance, he seemed unarmed now, but who knew where he could be hiding something? The engineer shuttered his optics for just a nanoklik, trying to talk himself down. Who was he to judge? He was here because he was in a pace with an Unraveler, a NET patient and a murderer. He should easily be calm with a mech who didn’t even show a firearm…but he wasn’t. This was a member of the Unraveled pace and it was in Huffer’s experience that they were perilous, vengeful.

“You don’t have to do that,” he admitted at last. “Cardsharp is already dead.”

That seemed to draw the first full reaction from Blowsweep; his optics widened and he leaned back in his seat, stunned. “How? When?”

“Several vorns now. Just before Brawn and I found our **trilitare** , I was, um, abducted by a criminal troupe. It turned out that Cardsharp was their accountant…” Haltingly he told Blowsweep the story, focusing on Cardsharp’s role instead of the others; he was in no mood to recount _all_ of the vivid details of the nightmarish ordeal. “…and when Cardsharp was dying, Brawn whispered something to him. I still don’t know what it was.”

Blowsweep stared at the ground, clenching his hands tightly between his knees. “You said Brawn mentioned us?” he asked quietly.

“He was doing what he did to avenge you, I think,” Huffer confirmed. “Any time he’s mentioned you, I can tell he regrets everything that happened.”

Blowsweep was silent for a long minute and then, to Huffer’s surprise, he cursed, teeth clenched in tightly-controlled fury. “And Cardsharp regretted _nothing_. Reformatting the cannon and using it against Brawn in the fight proves it and frag it, I wanted to _make_ him regret it. He should’ve died _slowly_ , _painfully_ , in every way he feared.”

Huffer wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he blurted out the first thing that came to mind: “If it helps at all, I did torture him for several minutes before the fight.” Shocked at himself, he stifled a choked sound and pressed his face into his hands. When he looked up again, Blowsweep was staring at him. “That was inappropriate?” Huffer tried, his voice going up a note at the end, questioning.

“Sure was.” Blowsweep’s demeanor was still dark, but at least he had stopped trembling in rage. “Y’think maybe we should be the ones in evaluations?”

“Probably, yes.” After this mutual agreement, the pair of them stayed quiet for nearly a breem. During that time, Huffer was gathering his courage and when he thought he had bolstered himself enough, he ventured again, “But…why? Why did _you_ shoot Brawn?”

Before Blowsweep could answer, the door to the evaluation room opened. Huffer leapt to his feet but his steps were tentative as Brawn came out to meet him. The pace-leader stopped up short and Huffer followed suit, half-turning to move out of his way. He watched Brawn’s optics drain of color as he stared at Blowsweep, who rose to his feet but didn’t approach.

 **::Cyig’kote,::** he said simply.

“I’m not that anymore, not for you,” Brawn countered, shifting his weight in Huffer’s direction. Tensely Huffer glanced between him and his former pace-mate, unsure of what he was feeling right now. It would be too conspicuous to lean closer to feel his EM field.

“I know. I just wanted to it to be said,” Blowsweep admitted, shrugging heavily. “Can you do me a favor? Turn ’round?”

Brawn clenched his hands, jaw and optics tightly in fluid unison. Ever so slowly he pivoted, and Blowsweep did approach then, peering closely at the back brace. Bravely he put a hand on the solid metal covering the wounds he and Cardsharp had caused. Brawn jerked as though he were going to whirl around again, but Blowsweep gripped his shoulders and held him in his position long enough to press his chamfron against the brace. As soon as he felt it, Brawn stilled and Huffer had to resist the urge to look away.

It was a very old Culumexian custom that if an enemy who had done terrible harm wanted to make amends, they would find the mech they had wronged and bow their helm against the wound. It was a plea for mercy, a promise of understanding if it was rejected, and an opening to be struck down if the one they had wounded felt it was right.

After a solid minute, Blowsweep let go and Brawn turned shakily, backing away a few steps. He ran right into Interim, who was emerging from the nearby hallway.

“Excuse me,” she muttered. “I need to speak with you and your One.”

“Of course,” Brawn agreed hastily, moving toward the hallway she had just come from. Huffer swallowed, pushed what he had just seen out of his mind, and turned away from the slowly drooping mech in the waiting room.

“If you do intend on going through with all of this,” Interim was saying when Huffer caught up, “I suggest you know about the sparkling you’re going to adopt. We’ve tracked down his carrier.”

“Where?” Brawn barked sharply.

“That information is classified,” Interim shot back smoothly. “But I’ll tell you about her; we know her history. She’s an artist from Solomus—you know how many of those there are—but she stood out because she’s given up several sparklings for adoption before. This particular mechling wasn’t sparked in Solomus, but in Epistemus. We figure that since she was in a different sector, she didn’t want to go through the ins and outs of giving him to the sparkling center and he was abandoned instead.”

“Then it’s a good thing we’re taking him,” Brawn replied emphatically. Interim gave him a pointed look and skirted past him with a remark about checking on the other evaluations. Huffer slumped against the wall of the hallway as soon as she was out of audial range.

“How do you think yours went?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Brawn admitted. “It was hard to focus. I kept thinking about Beeper waiting for us in the hospital, about Gears and Charger, Beeper’s carrier—”

“What about her?”

Brawn looked as though he regretted mentioning it. Clearing his throat tactfully, he explained, “The hospital Blowsweep put me in after he—I think she was there. She looked just like him and she was handing over her newspark to the medics. Every time I think about her, it just burns me up and I think that might have come through in the eval. I just—I—”

“Well, never mind her,” Huffer cut him off. “What happened with her is about her, not us. No one needs to know. As far as anyone knows, Beeper’s from Epistemus now.”

“Alright…we’ll keep this to ourselves.” Brawn paused, peering at him closely. “You alright, little One? You look…tired.”

“I am tired,” Huffer confirmed flatly. “And frankly I hope we’re making the right choice going through with this.”

“You’re having second thoughts?” Brawn asked in surprise.

“I can’t have second thoughts, Brawn, because—well, I never had _first_ thoughts about it. You decided. But you’re my pace-leader…” Thinking of Blowsweep, he murmured, “My **cyig’kote** , and I trust you. If you want this, I’ll stand by you.”

“Huffer, I don’t want you _settling_ for this,” Brawn argued. “I want you _in_. This is going to change our lives, but it might change them for the better. When he was with us, did you see what happened? Gears and CJ bonded, Windcharger walked with a spring in his step, and you smiled at least once an orn!”

Huffer blinked. “I…did?”

“You did. I saw a change in _all_ of you. And…well, creators say that their creations grow up all too fast.” Brawn huffed lightly, folding his arms. “Soon enough he’ll be choosing a pace he wants to be a part of and then he’ll be off having his own life. I just want to…give him a good foundation. I already saw him once, on the worst orn of my life, and now again. That’s a little too providential. I see it…Don’t you? He’s an outcast from my past and aren’t we all about the outcasts?”

“Hmm…Maybe I can accept an outcast who’s from your past once you do the same,” Huffer suggested uncertainly. “Can we make a deal? You make a shot at cutting Blowsweep loose from everything that happened and I…I’ll try my slaggin’ _hardest_ to give Beeper a shot too.”

Brawn seemed unsure of what to think of that; he withdrew slightly, glancing back down the hall toward the waiting room. “Just so long as it’s not a shot to the back,” he remarked flatly. Huffer startled and opened his mouth, but Brawn was already moving back down the hall.

_Was that a yes or a no?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the ending here conveyed what I wanted it to: Huffer is really unsure a sparkling is what they need, but he's going to let them give it a long, good try, so long as he knows Brawn can let the past be the past and focus on the future that Brawn himself says that he wants. 
> 
> Gah, I have so many feelings about Blowsweep that I don't even know what they are, and neither does Brawn. I'm really not sure if he'll forgive him or not. What do you guys think?


	22. Chapter 22

Gears should have known he would end up waiting for his evaluation alone. Each waiting room was separate so multiple evaluations could happen simultaneously, but it meant that he couldn’t leave the waiting room to interact with his pace-mates, who were sequestered in the other areas. On the way to his, Gears had seen Montage and several of his pace-mates had arrived to offer their support and had found they were only allowed in the outer waiting area, the common room which led outside. Montage was arguing with one of the clinic employees; he had one of those voices which carried.

“My One is a legal attorney,” he had declared sharply. “I know the rights and if you want to seem like you’re giving any semblance of justice…”

Gears hadn’t heard much more, as the mech escorting him to his personal waiting room had put a hand on his arm to hurry him along. “Don’t touch me,” Gears had snapped, shrugging it off and glaring at the mech. “I can walk on my own.”

Still he could feel his arm tingling. The escort’s contact had shaken him slightly and gave him just another reminder that he was in a medical clinic, being escorted back to a room of his own to be evaluated…Everything was just a little too familiar. _They could’ve cleaned this place up a little though,_ he mused, wondering how many airborne contaminants there were in a place like this.

As soon as he was in his private waiting room, he had been startled to find no witnesses there for him. After swallowing with difficulty, he had asked the escort if he could make a call. The best the escort could give him was a data pad and a minute or two with which to send a message, so he had searched frantically for someone who might come to support him.

He wanted his pace first and foremost, but they weren’t available. His spark ached as he thought of how comforting his creators would have been and it was when he was on that train of thought that he made his decision. He had no idea if Blockaide would get the message or even if he would get here in time, but it was worth a shot. His creators’ old pace-mate, a second sire to him, would probably do his best not to let Gears down.

Even so, there was nothing he could do but wait now. He fiddled with the pile of data pads from time to time, alphabetizing them and then trying to see if he could access the text and edit it, just to get some small payback at the clinic employees, but the data pads were on read-only mode and frustrated him.

By the time he was done skimming the selection of medical journals, he had determined that he probably had some kind of introductory strain of Corrodia Gravis. His struts _had_ been itching lately, but he had no one to tell about his condemnation to a slow, painful death. For some reason this didn’t panic him as much as it usually did; more than that, he felt lonely and out of sorts. Why was no one here for him? He knew Brawn and Windcharger would have supporters in _their_ waiting rooms.

“Excuse me,” a new mech called to him, distracting him from these withering thoughts. “You’re Gears, correct? You can come in now.”

“It’s about time,” Gears told him frankly, brushing past him into the room. To his surprise, he found the backup he had given up on: Mesh, the medic in Montage’s pace, was already standing at the ready and smiled reassuringly when he saw him.

 _That must have been what Montage was arguing for,_ Gears realized with relief, almost returning the smile in his gratitude. Even if he hadn’t caught himself beforehand, who he saw standing just behind Mesh would have wiped it away just as quickly. His vents hitched, locked, and wouldn’t cooperate when he tried to ex-vent.

“Hello, Gears,” Venture greeted cautiously, looking him up and down. “You…look well. It’s good to see you again.”

After a struggle several kliks long, Gears’ vents kickstarted again and he ex-vented a bit shakily. “Venture,” he returned, proud at how calm and collected he sounded. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m the closest thing we have to a liaison; they called me to stand by as an expert on your…condition.” Venture seemed pained at how he was reacting to her but Gears suspected she was doing her best to keep a decent distance from him. That was appreciated, but her presence piled on top of the other similarities between this place and the NET tower was only putting him more and more on edge. He did his best to push it away; he had to be on his best behavior for the evaluation and then he could sort through what he needed to later. As he sat, he focused on Beeper and his internals relaxed just a little.

“We’re going to be recording this evaluation,” the mech who had beckoned him in explained, patching him into the systems monitor available before sitting across from him at the table in the center of the room. “You and the witnesses will need to state your names for the record and then we’ll begin.”

“Will you be stating your name too?” Gears countered as soon as the recorder was online. The mech paused and then gave him a benign, aggravating smile.

“I had planned to. Are you making a request?”

“I am now.”

“Very well. My name is Rend of Nexus and I’ll be the psychologist conducting this evaluation. Will the three of you please state your identities and the sector of Culumex you originally hail from?”

“I’m Mesh, also known as Detail, of Epistemus,” the medic stated.

“Venture of Alchemist,” the femme added, keeping her optics straight ahead as Mesh gave her a startled glance.

“Gears of Micronus,” Gears sighed, giving Mesh an apologetic glance. The medic shifted slightly away from Venture but otherwise maintained his calm fairly well, considering.

“Alright, Gears,” Rend began, “I suppose I should start by asking you what a Micronus mech is doing on the opposite side of Culumex.” He chuckled lightly, seeming amused by that, and Gears raised an eyebrow at him skeptically.

“My pace lives in Epistemus,” Gears answered, folding his hands and tapping one thumb on its opposite twin.

“When did you move?”

“From Micronus?” Gears was sorely tempted to ask why he wanted to know, but he figured that would be taken to mean it was a pressure point for him, so he finally conceded. “Four vorns and a centivorn ago, I moved from Micronus to Alchemist.”

“Ahh.” Rend nodded in something like sympathy and Gears’ frown deepened, so the psychologist made a quick note on a data pad. “Was it hard on you? Did you leave behind any family?”

“No, my—” A staggered beep from the medical monitor forced Gears to give it a distracted glance, noticing that his spark pulse had picked up, before finishing, “—my creators came from Micronus with me. They got me settled into Alchemist and then backtracked to settle in Solomus. They liked it there.”

“Are you close with your creators?” Rend questioned, tilting his helm.

“I…was,” Gears admitted. “They were all I had; they meant the world to me.” The monitor beeped again and he squeezed his hands more tightly, narrowing his optics at his interrogator.

“From what I’m seeing on this monitor, Gears, you’re getting a bit worked up,” Rend commented. “How do you feel?”

“I feel like you should probably change the subject.”

“Could you tell me why before I do?”

“Because the Tangle of Sectors took my creators from me and I don’t like to talk about it, alright?!” Gears spat. Rend nodded thoughtfully, patiently, and wrote something else down. The sight was infuriating, but Gears prayed it wouldn’t show on that slaggin’ monitor. He just had to focus on Beeper, on the others. He had to do his best for them.

For the next several joors, relentless as he could be, Rend continued to bombard him with questions he didn’t even know were relevant, like his work schedule, if he liked his job, how often he drank high-grade, or if there were anyone he saw regularly who aggravated him.

“If I saw you regularly, that would be you,” Gears deadpanned. Rend had the gall to _laugh_ at him when he said that and Gears turned up the power of his glare. Rend didn’t seem to mind it too much, which angered Gears enough that he rewarded the monitor another trill and the data pad another note.

“Well, I’m sorry if I’m irritating you, Gears,” the doctor soothed, not sounding too sorry, “but we should be done soon. From what I can tell, you have some hypochondria and some grief for your creators which you haven’t dealt with yet, some depression. You also seem to have some pretty strong hostility against happiness, both yours and others’. Why is that?”

“You already know the answer to that,” Gears retorted. “Venture can give you all of the specifics on what they did to me at NET.”

“I want to hear it from you. Are you willing to tell me?”

“I was _happy_ for seventy-four vorns and when I was finally balanced, I decided I would make sure my pace and I were happy less often. That’s pretty straightforward, isn’t it?” Gears growled.

“It seems so. But tell me, how is that going to affect the sparkling you want to adopt? Do you want him to be happy?”

Gears blinked a few times, opening his mouth and then closing it. “I—want him to have a good, balanced life,” he said at last. “That doesn’t mean happiness, n-not all the time.”

Rend hummed thoughtfully. “Let me ask, how do you cope with what NET did to you in your every-orn life? Do you ever feel driven to make sense of it?”

“I _understand_ what they did!” Gears hollered, slamming an open hand on the table and then wincing at the bang it created. Pulling the hand quickly away, he grumbled, “Sorry, I’m sorry. I just don’t…”

“You wouldn’t wish it on anyone,” Rend translated. Gears nodded guiltily and the psychologist processed that. “You’re passionate about that; your sense of justice is finely-tuned, Gears, and that’s a good thing. A hope for justice usually stems out of empathy—so long as it is justice you want. Do you ever wish you could have the opportunity to inflict harm on the bots at NET?”

Gears paused, optics flicking just for a nanoklik to Venture, who shifted slightly out of his reach, pursing her lips. “There are a lot of scientists in there who are being coerced, who were put under the program themselves,” Gears muttered at last, focusing his gaze on the tabletop. “But the ones who do it willingly, who _want_ to do it—yeah, I might want them to get a taste of their own medical coding, but I…I don’t know if _I_ could do it.”

“Interesting.” The note Rend made was longer than some of the others, Gears noted with unease, but the feeling was mild compared to what he felt when the other mech set down his stylus and announced, “Gears, there are some red signals I see here, but you seem to think that the system reset you received will keep those problems in check?”

“That’s right.”

“To conclude this evaluation, I’ll need to examine the device that reset you.”

Gears stared at him for a few long, calculating minutes before reluctantly beginning the sequence to unlatch his chest armor. “I don’t know if you’ll be able to see it too well,” he commented.

“Don’t worry, I shouldn’t have any trouble if I’m holding it,” Rend assured him.

Gears’ chest snapped closed faster than it ever had before, painfully pinching a couple of nervecircuits before bristling and adjusting as he lunged to his feet. “You want to take it out?!” he gasped, paying no heed to the more urgent alarms from his spark pulse monitor which clearly communicated his terror. “No, no, no, I-I can’t—If I—I’ll— _no_ —”

“Gears, please, calm down,” Mesh pleaded, holding out his hands placatingly. “It’s alright; Venture and I will be overseeing and we’ll make sure nothing happens to it—”

“Oh, that’s really fraggin’ reassuring! What about what happens to _me?!_ ”

“It would only be minutes,” Rend assured him. “Just long enough for Venture to explain the device’s mechanics to me and for me to ask you some of the same questions I did before.” Lowering his voice as Gears trembled in helpless rage, he added, “Gears…this is a part of you just as much as everything else. My assessment of you and your psychological health, whether or not you can take care of a sparkling, depends on this—and as much as you may not want to face it, there is a chance, however slight, that the device could malfunction somehow. For the sake of the sparkling, I need to be sure the device does its job well enough to keep him safe.”

“Sit, Gears, you’re starting to hyperventilate,” Mesh coaxed softly. The red and blue mech numbly obeyed; he wasn’t sure how much longer his legs would have held him. After what seemed like an eternity, he latched desperate optics onto Venture.

“Mesh is a medic too,” she reminded him. “He’ll recognize any signs that something’s going wrong and we’ll give it back to you. I always took care of you when you were…in that state. That was seventy-four vorns. I’ll take care of you again for ten minutes. Will you trust me for that long?”

“If you want, you can be the one to take it out,” Rend added, clearly trying to offer him some meager semblance of control.

It took five minutes for Gears to decide and ten more minutes for him to muster his courage and the strength to move. Choking back an ugly, wordless cry of despair, he shifted, feeling like he was in slow motion as he opened his chest and felt along seams until he found what he was searching for. His fingers and EM field were shaking so hard, they fairly vibrated as he slid the circuit card out of its compartment inch by agonizing inch.

He recognized the change the nanoklik it came; his damaged spark churned in unspeakable horror behind an EM field which went limp and smooth and a grin that had materialized against his will.

“Thank you, Gears,” Rend murmured, taking the card as Gears set it on the table.

“Oh, of course, it’s no trouble! I wouldn’t want to cause you any trouble by being stubborn,” Gears proclaimed, giggling a little. “All of this is just another step toward adoption and I’ll do what I can for a sparkling! The sparkling my pace and I want is just the sweetest little thing! Do you have a sparkling of your own? From what I’ve experienced, it’s really fulfilling!” He paused, his smile widening as he shrugged sheepishly. “I’m sorry, I’m rambling…”

“I’m willing to listen,” Rend assured him, which only made Gears’ frame shiver a little, but he didn’t know why, so he kept smiling despite it. Looking slightly unnerved, Rend flipped the circuit card over in his hands. “Venture, this area here…”

Venture launched into an explanation of it, but Gears was hardly listening; he was too wrapped up in what he felt. Memories were crossing his mind without his permission; the more that surfaced, the happier he felt. He was blessed, truly blessed, he realized, laughing at the odd, concerned stare Mesh was giving him. There was a whisper of some sort which had been much louder fifteen minutes ago, a whisper that struggled vainly against the waves of satisfaction, even glee, which were hammering him now.

“Thank you,” Rend said to Venture, recalling Gears’ attention. “Now, Gears, do you…um, do you mind if I repeat some of my earlier questions?”

“Of course not, sir, do whatever you need! I’m at your service!”

“What causes you stress or annoys you?”

“Hmm, nothing that I can think of! I’m not bothered by very many things, thanks to this coding of mine!”

Rend processed that answer for a klik or two before referring to his notes. “I see,” he said carefully. “That’s…a very different answer than the one you gave me before.”

“What other answer would I give?” Gears asked merrily.

Rend fidgeted a little. “Would you care to describe your feelings about your creators?”

“Oh, I’d love to talk about them!” Gears assured him excitedly. “Even though I haven’t seen them for several vorns, I know they’re so proud of me and I’m very proud to be their creation. I wouldn’t have become who I am without them; they always know the right thing to say, just how to guide me!” Rend narrowed his optics, peering at him more closely, and Gears tilted his helm, questioning cheerfully, “Is something wrong?”

“No, no, but I am curious…why are you referring to your creators in the present tense?”

Rend seemed more concerned than curious, but Gears didn’t mind either way. His optics widened, as did his grin, and he idly studied his hands. “Well, that’s a silly question! My creators are—” He faltered, shaking his helm slightly, and blinked a few times, his spark twisting, squeezing out more happiness as he remembered a certain something which had fled his mind somehow.

“Ohh, right…S-Sorry, I guess I slipped. You said I hadn’t dealt with—with their—heh, I like to say they’re _at peace_. Wait, did you ask another question? I’m really sorry, I’m rambling again!” His internals clenched tightly and he released a short ex-vent, clearing his throat and remarking, “Venture, would you be willing to check out the mechanisms in my wrists and optics? My hands won’t stop shaking and my optics are…um…” He choked out an incredulous laugh, finishing in a squeak, “…leaking!”

“In a few minutes, Gears,” Venture whispered. Gears nodded sweetly, studying her with blurry vision, remembering just how much he liked her. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he liked her!

“Sir Rend, it’s obvious that Gears needs that,” Mesh murmured, barely audible. “Please…”

Holding up a hand for Mesh to pause, Rend ventured, “Lastly, please tell me what you think of the bots at the NET center in Alchemist.”

“Oh, they’re some of the most helpful bots I know!” Gears exclaimed. “They take care of me every morning before I go to work, making sure I’m in the best shape I can be! They’re very considerate too; they let me work in Nexus, not in Alchemist, so I can stay with my company! If I had to work somewhere else, I wouldn’t have met those two nice mechs I hired the other orn! You should meet Brawn and Huffer sometime; I’m sure they’d like you! Not as quickly as I started to, granted, but maybe you can give them advice on how to fit in well on the worksite! They’re new to the site, you understand, and a little shy, but I like them! We might even become good friends!”

“Gears, Brawn and Huffer are your pace-mates,” Mesh burst out.

“Ha! That’s a bit straightforward! Since when?” Gears’ smile faltered slightly as it started hurting his face. He glanced around the room and then back down at his hands, which still wouldn’t stop their quivering. “I—I don’t want to be too much of a bother, but I feel a little dizzy and my fingertips are numb!”

“Give it back to him, Rend!” Mesh ordered. To Gears, he sounded far away, but even from that distance he could detect a note of something frantic in the medic’s voice.

“What’s happening?” Rend demanded.

“It’s what we call a black-wipe!” Venture explained hurriedly as she snatched the card away from the startled psychologist. “He’s in a state of flux because he’s panicking and his NET coding is trying to compensate for all the data he’s amassed while it’s been suppressed. If he doesn’t reset…Gears, can you pay attention for me? Open your chest plate for me and I’ll give you something to help with the dizziness, alright?”

“Thanks, Venture,” Gears murmured, laughing weakly as his vocals slurred. “I’m much obliged. I—I know you’ll take care of…” He trailed off, blinking static from the edges of his vision as his processors cleared. Scrambling upright, he recoiled from Venture’s touch, tripping over his own feet and narrowly catching himself on the medical monitor, which fell with a terrible crash.

The former NET patient pressed his back to the cool wall of the evaluation room, trying to reorient himself, gaping at the trio of bots across from him. When the circuit card supplied words for his feelings to him again, he felt terror, shame, violation, and rage in succession. Ripping the monitor’s cord out from underneath his plating, Gears whirled around with a snarl that was unintelligible even to his own audials, storming out. No one followed.

Once he got outside into the cool air, Gears felt free to crouch, putting his helm between his knees and trying to remember how to vent properly. He wasn’t sure if he would retch, but he knew it was plausible, given how sick he felt.

“Gears?”

The voice snapped him straight like a ramrod. Blockaide stood in front of him, tentatively reaching for him. “I was in the area when I got your message,” his creators’ old pace-mate explained apprehensively. “But you—you look like something’s _wrong_. I haven’t seen you…not smiling…since you were a mechling.”

As soon as the magnitude of the words hit him, Gears doubled over and purged, shoving the larger mech blindly away when he approached to offer help.

“I’m fine,” he choked out, vocals rising to a screech when Blockaide tried to protest. “I just relived it all _again_ and I’m _fine!!_ ” He stumbled, slammed against the side of the building and then curled into himself as soon as he hit the ground.

After a long pause, he heard Blockaide slide down the wall onto the ground beside him, not touching him but close enough that their EM fields entwined. The unspoken gesture was enough; Gears cursed thickly and then started sobbing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :'( ...Let's hope Windcharger doesn't have it half as rough.


	23. Chapter 23

Windcharger had been waiting for joors to be let into the evaluation room. He had no doubt that Brawn and Gears had been let in their rooms long ago, but his was an entirely different case.

 _They’re thinking that I’m oblivious, that I don’t know, but I do. By the Pits, I know_ exactly _what they’re doing._

He had gotten only a couple of kliks with his pace-mates before he was sequestered. Gears had gripped his arm, pulling him close enough that the shorter mech could lift himself up and tap their chamfrons together. Windcharger had frozen instantly, optics wide. It was exceedingly rare that Gears ever showed affection—even rarer that he would show it in front of anyone else—and he had never done _this_. Maybe it was a testimony to Gears’ unease in places like this that he felt he had to, but while they were in close contact, Gears had whispered to him.

“Charger, trust me, listen to me. Do _not_ mention your caste unless they want you to. It’ll make everything worse.”

It had been a strange command, but it had stuck in Windcharger’s mind as he was fairly dragged away. To his disbelief, Cliffjumper trailed after him and the escort, casually shoving through anyone who tried to stop him from following. They had been in this exclusive anteroom ever since. Windcharger was stalking back and forth restlessly and Cliffjumper was scanning some of the data pads available, surprisingly methodical.

“They’re building a case against me,” Windcharger muttered anxiously. “They’re—they’re probably checking everything in my background, going over it with a fine-tuned particle scanner!”

“Of course they are, but it’s not like you need to panic about it,” Cliffjumper replied, barely glancing up from his data pad.

Windcharger halted mid-stride, whirling toward his unduly-calm pace-mate. “That’s easy for _you_ to say! In their optics, you’re the perfect upper-class mech! You’ve never abducted sparklings or leveled buildings or held ransoms! You’ve never—” He winced, lowering his voice a little. “You’ve never killed. If I fail this, not only will they take Beeper away, they might just decide to put me back into stasis prison!”

Cliffjumper looked up at that, slapping the data pad onto the stack beside him. “You already served your time for all of it,” he reminded him. “Why would they do that?”

Windcharger laughed incredulously. “All they’re going to see is a criminal—a former sparkling-snatcher!—trying to get ahold of a mechling just barely supplanted into his second frame. Look around, Cliffjumper. I don’t have any witnesses; not a single mech is here who would speak up for me!”

Cliffjumper was uncharacteristically quiet as Windcharger ran a hand over his face and started walking circles again. Finally the grocer rose, intercepting the performer and snatching at his shoulders. “Stop, Charger,” he commanded in a growl.

“Why?” Windcharger spat back. Cliff gave him a chiding glare and he finally stopped struggling against the other’s hands. As soon as he did, Cliff released him, taking a few steps back.

“Look again.”

The blunt words gave Windcharger pause. He stared at Cliffjumper for a few kliks before glancing around the room a second time. “Nothing’s changed in the past thirty kliks, Cliff.”

Pinching the bridge of his olfactory sensor with a frustrated sigh, Cliffjumper then threw up his hands and announced tiredly, “I’ve seen more than enough of you to be a character witness. If I need to, I’ll speak on your behalf.”

Windcharger fell back a step, astonished. “Wh— _what?_ Why would you do that?”

“I’ll do it because for once we both want the same thing! And from what I can tell, you’re a—” Cliffjumper grimaced, almost as though the words pained him, before muttering, “Well, you’re a good mech, even if I don’t like it.”

“Why would that be something you dislike?”

Cliffjumper’s demeanor changed from open to overly blasé. “I don’t need to explain it all to you. We’ve never been interested in getting along, so my opinion doesn’t matter to you. What matters to you is the opinion of the public and the bots in the evaluation room—”

“Cliff! I never said your opinion didn’t—”

“—so let’s just focus on pleasing them and then I’ll call it even between us so you don’t have to feel like you have a debt,” Cliffjumper continued as though he hadn’t heard. “Then we can do exactly what I said when I first joined this pace: I give a pass, you take it. You’re cordial, I’m cordial, and that’s all.”

“So you’re just giving up?” Cliffjumper seemed startled at that question and Windcharger recovered the steps he’d taken, tentative. “Wait a klik, is this your way of apologizing?” When he received an impulsive shrug, Windcharger scoffed lightly, shaking his helm in wonder. “Cliff…CJ, I _do_ want to get along. We just don’t know each other well enough to do that! I—I don’t know how to ask for your opinion without starting a fight, and you’ve never told me what you thought about me except when you’re screaming. I hate it and you obviously do too, so shouldn’t we just try and get to know each other so we can stop? We’re _pace-mates_. Can’t we do better than _cordial?_ ”

Cliff hesitated to answer, long enough that the door to the evaluation room slid open and a sour-faced femme appeared. “You,” she addressed Windcharger. “It’s time.” As Windcharger moved toward her, she put an arm out to bar his way into the room. “A little forewarning: your evaluation is going to be comprised entirely of witness testimony, because frankly we won’t trust a word that comes out of your mouth.”

Optics widening, Windcharger protested, “But there—there isn’t—I mean…”

“Stop stammering and _speak_ ,” the femme ordered sharply. “What’s your question?”

“Where did you find the witnesses?”

“That’s classified,” the femme ricocheted resentfully, dropping her arm and turning away as she added, “And it’s ‘witness’, singular. We searched for someone we thought we could trust and we only found _one_.”

Windcharger glanced nervously back at Cliffjumper, who squared his shoulders demonstratively. Following his example, Windcharger tried to bring himself to full height as he followed the femme inside. Despite Gears’ warning, he reminded himself of who he was. He was a mech of Solus, the highest caste available to Culumex, and he had served his time honorably. He was going to portray himself with the dignity of knowing that, even if no one else in the room believed it.

When he entered the room, however, he drew his vents in sharply, spark kicking all systems to a higher gear. His character witness rose when he saw him, casting a tall, tall shadow over the panel of Culumexians on the other side of the table.

“Hello, Windcharger,” Prowl hailed him civilly.

“ _Prowl_ ,” Windcharger gasped, relief—even humble joy—reflecting in his vocals. The Praxian was known well in Nexus, having helped with several joint operations; he was also a personal friend to Harness, their police chief. With Prowl on his side, Windcharger might just manage to survive this.

“Sit down, please, Sir Prowl,” the overseer of the panel requested, his voice curt; Windcharger suspected it was because Prowl made such a presence in the room, standing over everyone as he did. Prowl inclined his helm, appeasing, and Windcharger moved to sit next to his valuable witness, letting himself be attached to a spark monitor. When the mech giving his ministrations revealed a stasis clamp, however, Windcharger recoiled in alarm, the monitor shrilly keening.

“Now, is that _really_ necessary?” Prowl asked sharply. “He’s a free mech. If he were to do something as ridiculous as running, I’m well-equipped with longer legs to overtake him and bring him back.”

“You don’t have an augmentation, **verriese** ,” the mech with the clamp countered. “If he runs and he’s free to use his augmentation, you would be as helpless as—” He broke off, yelping a little as the clamp was torn from his grasp.

Five out of the six other Culumexians sprang to their feet, bringing their own varied augmentations to bear as Windcharger pulled on the clamp until it had magnetized to his palm. He studied it closely, glanced up at the wary, armed evaluators, and then sighed, setting the cuff on the table.

“If you put this on me,” he explained mildly, “its inhibiting properties are going to scramble the medical monitor. The monitor looks expensive—2000 mint-gold credits at the very least.”

To his relief, this simple logic seemed to reach through their defensive barricade and ever so slowly, they eased their augmentations into standby, settling. It struck Windcharger then that he may very well have been given a _panel_ of interrogators so that he could be outnumbered in case he lashed out.

“Shall we get down to business?” Prowl questioned briskly, entirely unaffected by the skittish glances the assessors were sharing. “Our business here should be brief; my brother is expecting me to be home tomorrow morning, which means I have a long journey ahead of me once this is done.”

“Well, Lieutenant, we won’t take up too much of your time,” the femme who had summoned Windcharger assured the Praxian, glowering in Windcharger’s direction as she took her seat, folding her hands primly. “I’m afraid that your testimony alone, esteemed though it may be, simply isn’t and will never be enough that we can approve this…” She searched for a word.

“… _Mech_ ,” Windcharger finished for her, leaning forward and enunciating clearly and firmly, “Mech, **trilitare** , creation, friend, entertainer, brother-in-arms and employee to the city. Take your pick.”

“Criminal,” she countered acidly. “Don’t presume to appeal to my guilt; _you’re_ the guilty one.”

“Please, madam,” Prowl sighed. “I accounted for the fact that my testimony wouldn’t be enough for Windcharger’s approval, which is why I have other pre-recorded character testimonies to add in Windcharger’s favor.”

“I beg your pardon? That’s impossible; we found no one who would speak for him,” one of the other panel members protested, igniting murmurs of skepticism from the others.

“Well, you seem entirely disinclined to find anyone to offer aid to Windcharger’s cause,” Prowl pointed out bluntly. “I, however, am very thorough in whatever I do.” So saying, he revealed three datatrax, spreading them on the table with a fluid flourish. The assessors stared at them distrustfully, as though the datatrax themselves might attack or prove criminal, and Prowl very nearly rolled his optics. “Can I have access to your datatrax player, please?” Once it had been supplied to him, he resumed his previous train of thought. “First I tracked down a former abduction victim. While he was being held by The High-Octane Flyers—the pace led by the criminal Airmaster Incinerator—he interacted with each member and has clear recollection of the part Windcharger had to play in the crime.”

Air caught soundlessly in Windcharger’s vents as the datatrax started playing and he could hear Prowl’s voice, requesting a name and a sector of origin.

 _“I’m Remote of Nexus,”_ an older but still familiar voice declared, adding with less formality, _“Back then, when it happened, I went by Motey. I—I don’t know if that’s important or not…”_

_“Thank you. I know it’s been several vorns since the incident, Remote, but I’m going to show you some holopictures of those involved. I’m hoping you can tell me what each of these bots did during your time with them.”_

_“Oh, okay…I guess I’m ready.”_ After a pause, Remote huffed lightly, sounding ill at ease. _“I remember that one. He was the one who first took me; I remember admiring his wings a nanoklik before he…And that one with the long arms stood guard and made sure I didn’t run from their hideout…”_

Windcharger resisted the urge to wince as Remote described each of his old coworkers; the descriptions weren’t likely to help his case in front of this bitter, judgmental group. When Remote reached Windcharger, however, he sounded surprised and almost relieved. _“Oh! That mech was the one who kept me company when the others weren't around; he played with me.”_ He laughed sheepishly, admitting, _“I wanted him to teach me how to fly and he let me pretend I had wings.”_

_“You’re sure that it was this mech, Windcharger?”_

_“I’m sure,”_ Remote insisted. _“He even turned his back a few times as if he wanted to let me escape. I would have too, if the one with long arms hadn’t caught me. I don’t think Windcharger wanted to be there and he definitely didn’t want me to be there either.”_

Pulling out the trax and replacing it with the second, Prowl cast a pointed look at the judges. “Let it be noted that Remote saw remorse and unwillingness in Windcharger—him alone.”

“It should also be noted that Remote was merely a mechling when he was abducted and his memory could be flawed,” the femme assessor shot back stubbornly. “Furthermore, he had no way to tell if Windcharger was simply putting on a show so he would feel vindicated for his part in it! No abductee, blinded by fear for their safety, would have a clear processor unless they had been trained to keep their calm. Perhaps if it were a testimony from someone who had that training, such as a police officer, it would hold more weight, Lieutenant.” Smiling condescendingly, she concluded, “And I doubt you managed to procure a testimony from anyone such as—”

_“—Police Chief Harness of Nexus.”_

Windcharger gawked at the datatrax player, tempted to ask Prowl to rewind it so he could hear the introduction again. The femme seemed to consider the same, but neither had the nerve as the recording of their sector’s police chief continued gruffly, _“Why are you asking me to do this, Prowl? You know what he did.”_

_“As do you, my friend, so please give me an unbiased account.”_

There was a terse sigh which caused static on the trax before Harness announced, _“All I can say about him is that he was crying and begging forgiveness when I took him away, he didn’t make any attempt to escape and he served his time in stasis just as he should have.”_

_“And what about his service after his release?”_

_“He’s done all of his community service without a peep of complaint and practically threw the credits he earned at the bereaved paces for twenty vorns. If you want anything better than that, Prowl, you need to find someone else to gush sweet oil about him.”_

The second trax was swapped out for the third and final, with Prowl allowing himself a smile at the stunned evaluators. “Your sector’s police chief seems to think that Windcharger was remorseful, just as Remote did,” he remarked innocently. “It also seems that he was a model prisoner and has gladly paid his dues to the bereaved and to the public.” When no one questioned this statement, Prowl gestured to the third trax. “This was obtained in your neighboring sector, Epistemus, which I’m sure you’re aware has a high standing among the sectors of your city. The bots there, whatever age, are those of esteem.”

Optics narrowing, the femme leaned back in her chair, begrudging in the face of that victory, even petulant. “Continue,” she muttered.

There was a pause on the recording before they heard Prowl speaking again, gently this time. _“Hello there. I want to thank you for meeting me; what you’re about to do is very important.”_

 _“Carrier, he’s big,”_ a small voice whispered, barely audible, but Windcharger recognized it immediately and his throat tightened. The femme glanced at his medical monitor when it skipped a few beeps.

 _“There’s no need to be shy,”_ Prowl assured the concerned mechling. _“I’m meeting you to help a mech named Windcharger. I think you know him.”_

 _“Winder?”_ Genre gasped hopefully. _“Oh, I know Winder!”_

Prowl laughed lightly, glad at his excitement at the name. _“Why don’t you tell me about him?”_

 _“He’s wonderful!”_ Genre enthused happily. _“He plays music for my friends and I, just because he wants to be with us! He tells us stories to teach us about being honest and helpful.”_

_“Really? Do you think he’s an honest mech?”_

_“Of course he is!”_ Genre sounded scandalized that the idea was ever being questioned. _“And he makes us laugh; he’s really, really nice! He tries to help whenever anything needs helping; I saw him cleaning up the nasty garbage in the alleyway the other orn after a fight with one of his pace-mates.”_

 _“Oh…”_ Prowl paused, seeming unsure what to think of that last bit. _“Did he seem sorry about the fight?”_

 _“Really, really sorry,”_ Genre confirmed confidently.

_“Tell me, do you think that if Windcharger did something really bad, he would feel sorry about it too?”_

_“Of course! He’s always saying we should make up for bad things, no matter what they are or how bad! He says we should make sure we forgive bad things too.”_ There was a hesitation and then Genre added shyly, _“He also gives great hugs whenever I’m feeling sad; he’s like…he’s like my big brother.”_

Turning off the player, Prowl addressed the silent panel as though they were students listening to an informative lecture. “Femmes and gentlemechs, all of us here know that Windcharger was a criminal. From these witnesses, you just heard what Windcharger has become since then, what he _is_ here and now. He’s a friend, even a brother to a sparkling who needs him and looks up to him. That sparkling clearly believes he has a lot to look up to—honesty, care, mercy, willingness to help—and the **sponling** Windcharger and his pace-mates want to adopt will no doubt believe the same. Don’t let your personal opinions of him get in the way of your work; look at the facts and you’ll see what I see, what the other witnesses see: he’s paid his dues and is ready—and worthy—of a fresh start.” So saying, the Praxian folded his hands, blatantly satisfied with his work.

Trying to read the assessors’ faces as they processed it all, Windcharger scarcely dared to vent as he waited for what they had to say—whatever it may be, for better or for worse. For a long time, the only noise in the room was that of the medical monitor, keeping a staggered rhythm of Windcharger’s spark, pulse by anxious pulse.


	24. Chapter 24

 

* * *

  **One Vorn Later**

* * *

 

“How long are you going to take with that detailing, Charger?” Cliffjumper asked impatiently. “Some of us need the paint too!”

“I’ll take however long I need to,” the **trilitare** shot back, lowering his voice a little to address the sparkling in front of him. “However long it takes for you to sit still while I do this!”

“Tickles,” Beeper protested, squirming where he sat on the edge of the wash-racks. As Windcharger deftly painted swirls of melted beryl and tourmaline over his arms, signifying strength and courage for the future, the little one briefly reverted to indignant sparkling chirps before giggling and ducking away.

Sighing, Windcharger glanced over his shoulder and hollered, “Brawn, I need your help in here! Beeper’s got torqued nervecircuits; I can’t work with him fidgeting like this!”

Cliffjumper pressed against the wall of the cramped washroom to let their pace-leader through, studying him jealously as he passed. Brawn had managed to decorate _before_ Windcharger had gotten ahold of the paint, so Cliff was left feeling indignantly plain when he was in a room with him.

“Si’,” Beeper greeted, excitedly waving an arm and flinging droplets of lacquer, earning a dismayed groan from Windcharger. As always, Brawn did his best to hide the smile that tried to surface when the sparkling called him “sire”, but he didn’t quite manage it.

“Beeper, look at Sire,” Brawn urged, holding up his arms for Beeper to see. Cliffjumper chuckled in a pedal tone as Beeper waved his hand a few more times before computing the request. He was at the age where his processors lagged somewhat when it came to listening.

Perking up with a coo of awe, the sparkling blinked at Brawn’s decorative plating, pointing to it curiously. “Si’, what?”

“It’s special paint that I put on for your party. Do you want Windy to make your paint look like this?”

Beeper beamed, glancing at Windcharger and pointing more insistently at Brawn. “Windy, that!” With a longsuffering smile, Windcharger nodded and picked up the expectant sparkling, depositing him on Brawn’s lap, where he could be entertained during the process by touching the filigree on Brawn’s hands and smudging it in some areas, but hopefully no one would notice. It would all be soaked in oil soon enough anyway, Cliffjumper mused. While he was like all Culumexians in that he appreciated the importance of this orn, he had always wondered why they decorated the hands so immaculately if it was only going to be washed away to waste. In any case, Beeper deserved it all.

Though the evaluations they had taken for it had been exhausting, even traumatic in some aspects, the benefits they had reaped were worth anything. Cliffjumper smirked a little as he recalled the sour expression on Interim’s face as she gave them the news, but even she couldn’t help but give them just a hint of a smile at their ecstatic reactions.

Adding Beeper to the household had been a joyous occasion for all involved, but it didn’t compare to this first vorn of raising him. By now they had all settled comfortably into the routine, but Beeper always found a way to surprise them, whether it was his keen optic for small details or a nickname given on a whim. Close to Cliffjumper’s spark was the time Bee had announced the two of them were “brurs”, meaning “brothers.” Cliff had unashamedly bragged about it for diuns, while Gears had pointed out that sooner or later Beeper would need to learn the real word. Naturally Cliff had been forced to threaten the **sequein** with some unseemly things if he dared to correct the little one.

Perhaps he was filling his mind with these thoughts to avoid thinking about their immense problem. True to their form, they had pushed the problem to the back of their minds until the very last minute they had in which to handle it. Unfortunately, they were already cutting it incredibly close. Gears proved this by peering around the doorframe of the washroom, frowning deeply.

“We’ve had diuns for this!” he hissed. “Is he Beeper or is he not?”

“I’ve been telling you through every one of those diuns that it’s too plain,” Brawn shot back. “Are you going to listen this time? We’re _not_ calling him Beeper for his naming ceremony!”

“Why have you been ignoring my suggestion for ‘Bee’?” Cliffjumper demanded, quick to insert himself into the familiar conversation. Brawn had long since perfected the optic roll/glare combination, which Cliff promptly received for his question.

“It’s too short,” Huffer translated, slipping past Gears so he could lean over Beeper’s arms, inspecting. “Well, that should probably just be scrapped and done over again.” At Windcharger’s threatening growl, the One tsked and moved back. “Fine, whatever. How he looks doesn’t matter quite as much as what he’s going to be _called!_ We may have a spark-sanctus for him, but what about his name of insight, his alias?”

“We’ve been calling him Beeper for so long!” Gears complained. “He’s used to it; why change it now?” Helpfully the mechling chirped something in sparkling-speak and Gears looked around expectantly.

“Oh, Gears, that name is _so_ very insightful,” Brawn scoffed. “It’s something that happens when we use the comm. unit! It doesn’t even have anything to do with him. He’s not a machine and he deserves better!”

“Well, why don’t we ask him?” Cliffjumper suggested. “Hey, little brother, you like it when I call you ‘Bee’, don’t you?” Glancing up smugly when Beeper nodded, the red mech threw up his hands. “See? It could be settled just like that.”

“He agrees with most everything you say, Cliffjumper,” Windcharger huffed as he slid thin titanium bands onto the sparkling’s wrists and audials, symbolizing the unending faithfulness of Primus. “He doesn’t understand the importance of his alias.”

“Well, we need to decide!” Huffer cried, throwing up his hands. “Whatever it is, we have to give it to him now!”

“Okay, okay, don’t push!” Gears snapped. “We need to take our time with this.”

“We’ve run out of time, Gears, so when are we supposed to—?”

“Huffer, lower your voice,” Brawn cut in sharply.

“But he’s right,” Cliffjumper claimed. “This’ll certainly make for an awkward naming ceremony! Maybe we should just call this whole thing off!” At their startled expressions, he leaned forward and enunciated clearly, “We don’t have a _name_. We should’ve decided ages ago; we only waited this long because we wanted him to be old enough that he understood some of the things we’re going to do!”

A soft whimper from the source of the trouble quieted any potential comebacks. Flinching away from Windcharger’s hands, Beeper clung to a groove in Brawn’s chest, staring at all of the frustrated adults with wide optics. Sighing deeply, Huffer pushed past Gears and knelt.

“Hey, don’t…don’t be upset,” he pleaded uncomfortably. As always, Cliffjumper couldn’t help being surprised at how rapidly the mechling quieted. This past vorn, he had demonstrated an instinct that said Brawn and Huffer were the strongest; thus they were the safest and he had often gravitated to them when he got scared at night. It was definitely a change from his time with them as a newspark, but Gears and Cliff were glad it meant _their_ recharge was peaceful.

After a klik or two, Beeper peered upward, asking uncertainly, “Fight?” Huffer was quick to shake his helm.

“No, no! We just want things to be perfect for you. I doubt they will be at this point, but you’ve done a lot of special things, so you deserve a special name.” The engineer paused, a ghost of a smiling crossing his face. “Y’know, I remember when you first spoke. That was special; it’s one of my favorite memories.”

“Of course it is,” Brawn laughed lightly. “Cos I was holding him, you and I were talking, and out of nowhere he pointed at you and said ‘One’! Guess it came out of how often _I_ say it.”

“I think my favorite is when he tried to start a fuel fight and threw his JaAm at Windcharger,” Cliffjumper remarked with a toothy grin at the performer, who shuddered and shook his helm violently against the memory.

“What about when he started walking?” Gears piped up, seeming pleased by the nods and smiles from the others. “He held your fingers so tightly, Cliff, that all it did was pull him off balance! He was slipping and sliding everywhere!”

“But he kept trying,” Cliff pointed out, his grin softening as he leaned over Windcharger’s shoulder and patted the sparkling’s helm affectionately. “Since then, you’ve been our little bumbling Beeper. From the way you play, I think you always will be!”

“Yeah…he is that,” Brawn agreed at length, earning curious looks. “Beeper’s too plain and Bee is too short, but what about Bumblebee?” Pulling the sparkling upright so his small feet supported him, he addressed him kindly. “You might like that alias, right?”

Bee nodded vigorously for a few kliks, smiling widely, before one of his freshly-painted feet skidded out from underneath him. He pinwheeled his arms with a fledgling squawk of alarm, but Brawn’s hands were quick to support him and sit him back down. “Exactly my point,” the pace-leader teased, squeezing Bee’s shoulders. “ _Bumble_ bee. But that won’t be your real name, Bee, just what others call you. Have I ever told you my real name?”

“Sire?” Bee tried hopefully. At the negative shake of the helm, he hesitated before settling on, “Brown.”

Cliffjumper snorted in amusement, earning a brief frown before the pace-leader corrected, “Actually it’s _Brawn_ , but even that’s not my real name. My real name is connected to my spark and so is yours. You won’t be able to say it until you’re older, but the shorter form of your spark-sanctus, your real name, is **Finmerelde**.” As Windcharger loosely tied a shawl of silver and pseudo-silk over Bee’s shoulders, Brawn lowered his voice. “It means that you’ll be able to endure anything, that your spark will always feel strength return no matter how weak your frame might be.” Bee simply tilted his helm and Brawn hummed, tapping his olfactory sensor. “But you’re still little. Eventually you’ll understand.”

There was a long, pensive minute in which each pace-mate undoubtedly was thinking of their own spark-sanctus, the meaning behind it and how close it was to each spark. Huffer was the one to break the silence, lightly clearing his throat.

“We don’t want to keep the guests waiting. Rusty and Polevault might just come to drag us out there; you know how overexcited they've been about this.”

“Hightop would stop them,” Gears pointed out.

“Alright, then, c’mon,” Cliffjumper urged, pulling Brawn onto his feet. “You go keep them busy; I’ll decorate and be right out.”

“Yeah, sure! You take longer to decorate than you do in the wash-racks,” Windcharger teased.

Cliffjumper made a face at him without too much ire; he could save any comebacks for another time. After the others had filed out and the door slid closed, he repeated thoughtfully to himself, “Bumblebee…”

It was the name of a mech who had a lot to live up to, but Cliff’s mind then turned what the attending medic had said of Bee when his spark was being transplanted, which Brawn had told them when they first brought the mechling home. With a spark-sanctus like **Finmerelde** , his weak spark might just become one of the greatest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus Beeper finally becomes Bumblebee! The story's drawing to a close soon!  
> If any of you are interested, by the way, I can put up a little list of the pace's various spark names, starting with...
> 
> Bumblebee, Finmerelde: "the spark feels strength return", given because of his unique spark  
>  ~~If you're interested in the others, let me know!~~
> 
> Well, you all seemed interested in hearing the others' spark names, so here's the list! :D
> 
> Brawn, Authscead: “battle shield”, given because he was sparked to a warrior  
> Huffer, Ciuscren: “sacred mercies”, given because he miraculously survived his difficult sparking  
> Gears, Vuresvereich: “our everything”, given because his creators adored him above all else  
> Windcharger, Fyardant: “first work”, given because he was the first and only sparkling  
> Cliffjumper, Perithere: “strong determination”, given because of his daring and persistence in reaching his goals


	25. Epilogue

Once the newly-christened Bumblebee—young **Finmerelde** —had received his promised oaths, Windcharger swallowed until the tightness in his throat eased and he could smile at the cheering, applauding guests. This wasn’t a time to get choked up; it was a time to celebrate the gift they had been given. Thus he took up his vlin and began playing vigorous, hearty music, including some songs he himself had written for the occasion. It seemed Brawn was at last letting up on Windcharger and Cliffjumper’s rule not to use augmentations at home.

His fingers flying over the vlin was an automatic process, allowing Windcharger some time to focus a bit more aimlessly. He watched his pace-mates as they interacted with their friends and, more importantly, with the sparkling. He thought of how different little Beeper…little Bumblebee…looked from when Windcharger had first found him, dazed and frightened in the waste. Now he was _alive_ , and though he didn’t have a carrier, he would be protected with the frames and sparks of five able Culumexians, even to the death if necessary.

Windcharger wondered what he would say if Bumblebee thought to ask about his past; he ached at the thought of seeing the little one in pain, but it was through that pain that he had come to them. That was the way it was with this pace: they all came together, clung to each other through their own griefs, and were somehow stronger for it. Even when they were faced with judges, they had charged on through and they had _won_. They probably weren’t worth this sparkling, but they would give everything they had to prove they were.

Windcharger vented slowly as slight nausea overcame him and he quickly demagnetized himself from his instrument, excusing himself to the kitchen for some dielectric oil to recharge his augmentation. Once he was out of the bustle of the lounge, he paused for a nanoklik, enjoying the dim lighting in the kitchen and the soft silence. It didn’t last long, however, as his comm. link vibrated with an incoming call.

“No rest for the weary,” Windcharger quipped to no one in particular before he picked up. “Yes? This is Windcharger.”

A burst of static was the first answer, followed by a hushed, raspy voice. “Windcharger…”

Spark flinching at the familiar voice, Windcharger glanced wildly around as though it would force the caller to reveal himself. “Strain? Wh-What are you—why are you calling me?”

“I wouldn’t unless it was a matter of great importance,” Strain hissed. “I’m calling to warn you. There are signs that all of Culumex has missed, things we’ve all been too blind to see, but only because the rumblings are in the capitol alone. They haven’t spread yet, but it won’t be long before they do. The Sector Council—Logos’ preparations—above all, the **verriesen** —”

“Wait, Strain, slow down!” Windcharger commanded, pressing his comm. link more tightly to his audial. “You’re not making any sense. What rumblings? What about Logos? Didn’t you move to Praxus so you could forget about Culumex?”

“In the past few vorns I’ve learned that Praxus isn’t entirely safe either, especially for…” Strain laughed a little, but it was a tense, apprehensive thing. “… _my kind_. But you, your pace, you know nothing of what may be coming…” In the brief pause that followed, Windcharger heard nothing but stiff wheezing.

“Strain…” the performer ventured tentatively. “Are you alright? You sound wrong, like you’re—”

“Windcharger, you need to prepare yourself,” Strain cut him off in a rush.

“Prepare myself for what and when?”

A trace of the hybrid mech’s familiar impatience laced through his vocals as he explained, “Look, there are rumblings through several cities—whispers telling of trouble in the government, traveling through cities one by one. When I speak of trouble, I mean the kind of trouble mechs like you and I should _never_ be a part of if we value our lives, worse than anything the Underground or NET could conjure up. I can’t be sure of the extent of it, but when I know for sure, I’m going to call you. When I do, be ready.” There was another hesitation, filled by a halting gasp of pain, before Strain murmured, “Proper preparation prevents poor performance.”

The words sent a prickling chill through Windcharger’s nervecircuits. He remembered that phrase; Strain had spoken it just before Windcharger had made the worst mistake of his life. “You’re serious,” he whispered, barely audible, as familiar protocols began churning through his mind: protocols on how to pack up and disappear at a nanoklik’s notice if one had to, protocols on how to avoid cameras and law officers and how to defend. “How long should I wait for your call?”

Static fizzed through the line once more, but no answer followed. Ex-venting in disbelief, Windcharger backed up until he was pressed against the wall, switching off his comm. link and staring around the room, not really registering any of it. What should he do now?

 _Anything,_ he realized at last, clenching and unclenching his hands.  _Anything to protect our pace, our family_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End?
> 
> I hope you've enjoyed "The Least of These" as much as I've enjoyed writing it. Though the story is far from over, it's been a pleasure to write thus far! Thank you so much to everyone who's left a faithful comment; you make my day!
> 
> Keep your ears to the ground, dear readers. Time is short and trouble is brewing...

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you're enjoying! Please drop a comment and let me know what you think! :D


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